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IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


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Sciences 
Corporation 


S^  \vEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  873-4503 


•Sj 


\ 


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V 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  IVIicroreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


Tachnical  and  Bibliographic  Notea/Notat  tachniquaa  at  bibiiographiquaa 


Tha  e 
to  thi 


Tha  inatituta  haa  attamptad  to  obtain  tha  baat 
original  copy  availabia  for  filming.  Faaturaa  of  thia 
copy  which  may  ba  bibliographically  uniqua, 
which  may  altar  any  of  tha  imagaa  in  tha 
reproduction,  or  which  may  aignificantiy  changa 
tha  uaual  mathod  of  filming,  ara  chackad  balow. 


D 


D 


D 
D 


D 


Coloured  covara/ 
Couvorti-ra  da  coulaur 


I      I    Covara  damaged/ 


Couverture  endommagia 

Covara  reatored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  reataur^a  et/ou  peiiiculAe 


I     I   Cover  title  miaaing/ 


La  titre  de  couverture  manque 


I      I    Coloured  mapa/ 


Cartea  gAographiquea  en  couleur 


□    Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

I      I   Coloured  plataa  and/or  illuatrationa/ 


D 


Pianchaa  et/ou  illuatrationa  en  couleur 

Bound  with  other  material/ 
RailA  avac  d'autrea  docur.ients 

Tight  binding  may  cauae  ahadowa  or  diatortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  re  liure  aerrde  peut  cauaer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
diatortion  la  long  de  la  marge  intirieure 

Blank  ieavea  added  during  reatoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  poaaibla,  theae 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  ae  peut  que  certainaa  pagea  bianchea  ajout^ea 
lore  d'une  reatauration  apparaiaaant  dana  le  texte, 
mala,  ioraque  cela  itait  poaaibla,  cea  pagea  n'ont 
paa  6t6  film^ea. 

Additional  commanta:/ 
Commentairea  aupplAmantairea: 


L'Inatitut  a  microfilm^  la  meilleur  exemplaira 
qu'il  lui  a  AtA  poaaibla  de  ae  procurer.  Lea  dAtaiia 
da  cat  exemplaira  qui  aont  peut-Atre  uniquea  du 
point  da  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvnnt  exiger  une 
modification  dana  la  mAthoda  normale  de  filmage 
aont  indiquAa  ci-doaaoua. 


a 
n 

□ 

n 
n 


Coloured  pagea/ 
Pagea  da  couleur 

Pagea  damaged/ 
Pagea  endommagiaa 

« 

Pagea  reatored  and/or  laminated/ 
Pagea  reataurAea  et/ou  peiliculAea 

Pagea  diacoiourad,  atainad  or  foxed/ 
Pagea  d6colorAea,  tachetAea  ou  piquAea 

Pagea  detached/ 
Pagea  d^tach^ea 

Showthrough/ 
Tranaparence 

Quality  of  print  variea/ 
Qualit^  intgale  de  I'impreaaion 

includea  aupplementary  material/ 
Comprend  du  material  auppKmentairo 

Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  diaponible 

Pagea  wholly  or  partially  obacured  by  errata 
aiipa,  tiaauea,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
enaure  the  beat  poaaibla  image/ 
Lea  pagea  totalement  ou  partiellement 
obacurciea  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  6tA  filmdea  A  nouveau  de  fapon  A 
obtenir  la  mailleure  image  poaaible. 


Theii 
poaaii 
of  th« 
filmln 


Origir 
begin 
the  la 
aion, 
other 
firatF 
aion, 
or  iliu 


Thau 
ahali  < 
TINUI 
whici 

Mapa 

differ 

entir« 

begin 

right 

requii 

meth 


Thia  item  la  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  eat  fiimi  au  taux  de  reduction  indiquA  ci-deaaoua. 


10X 

14X 

18X 

22X 

26X 

30X 

y 

12X 


16X 


20X 


24X 


28X 


32X 


Th«  copy  film«d  h«r«  ha*  b—n  raproduoad  thanka 
to  tha  ganaroaity  of: 

Univtnity  of  Victoria 


L'axamplaira  fllmA  fut  raproduit  grica  i  la 
giniroaiti  da: 

Univariity  of  Victoria 


Tha  imagaa  appaaring  hara  ara  tha  baat  quality 
poaaibia  conaidaring  tha  condition  and  lagibility 
of  tha  original  copy  and  in  Icaaping  with  tha 
filming  contract  apacif ieationa. 


Original  copiaa  in  ^rintad  papar  eovara  ara  fllmad 
baginning  with  tha  front  covar  and  anding  on 
tha  laat  paga  with  a  printad  or  illuatratad  impraa* 
•ion.  or  tha  bacit  covar  whan  appropriata.  All 
othar  original  copiaa  arm  filmad  baginning  on  tho 
f  irat  paga  with  a  printad  or  illuatratad  impraa- 
aion.  and  anding  on  tha  laat  paga  with  a  printad 
or  illuatratad  impraaaion. 


Laa  imagaa  tuivantaa  ont  *t*  raproduitat  avac  la 
plus  grand  toin,  compta  tanu  da  la  condition  at 
da  la  nattat*  da  l'axamplaira  film*,  at  mn 
conformitik  avac  laa  conditions  du  contrat  da 
filmaga. 

Laa  axamplairaa  originaux  dont  la  couvartura  mn 
papiar  aat  ImprimAa  sont  fiimis  mn  commandant 
par  la  promiar  plat  at  an  tarminant  aoit  par  la 
darni4ra  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'impraaaion  ou  d'iiluatration,  soit  par  la  sacond 
plat,  salon  la  caa.  Toua  las  autraa  axamplairas 
originaux  sont  filmte  an  commanpant  par  la 
pramiAra  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'impraaaion  ou  d'iiluatration  at  mn  tarminant  par 
la  darniAra  paga  qui  comporta  una  taila 
amprainta. 


Tha  laat  racordad  frama  on  aach  microficha 
shall  contain  tha  symbol  — ^  (moaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  tha  symbol  V  (moaning  "END"), 
whichavar  appliaa. 


Un  daa  symbolaa  suivants  spparaltra  sur  la 
darnlAra  imaga  da  chaqua  microficha,  salon  la 
caa:  la  symbola  -^  signifia  "A  SUIVRE ',  la 
symbola  V  signifia  "FIN  ". 


Mapa.  plataa.  charta.  ate,  may  ba  filmad  at 
diffarant  raduction  ratioa.  Thoaa  too  larga  to  ba 
antiraly  includad  in  ona  axpoaura  ara  filmad 
baginning  in  tha  uppar  iaft  hand  cornor.  laft  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  aa  many  framaa  aa 
raquirad.  Tha  following  diagrama  illuatrata  tha 
mathod: 


Laa  cartaa,  planchas,  tablaaux,  ate,  pauvant  itre 
filmte  A  daa  taux  da  reduction  diff Grants. 
Lursqua  la  documant  aat  trop  grand  pour  Atra 
raproduit  an  un  saul  clich*.  ii  ast  film*  A  partir 
da  I'angia  supAriaur  gaucha,  da  gaucha  A  droite, 
at  da  haut  9n  baa.  mn  pranant  la  nombra 
d'imagaa  nAcassaira.  Laa  diagrammas  suivants 
illustrant  la  m^thoda. 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

mm^^ 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


THE  SCALLYWAG 


BY 


GRANT   ALLEN 

AUTHOR   OF    "BLOOD   ROYAL."    "  WHAT'S   BRED   IN   THF.   BONE" 
'FALLING   IN   LOVE,"    "RECALLED  TO   LIFE,"   ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

CASSELL   PUBLISHING   COMPANY 

104  &  106  Fourth  Avenue 


w 


il 


CoPVmoHT,   1893,   BV 

CASSELL  PUBLISHING  COMPANY. 
^it  rightt  rturvtd. 


THE  MBRSHON  COMPANY  PRIM, 
«AHWAY,  N.  J. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAfTKR 

I.    In  Winter  Quarters ^ 

II.     Room  for  the  IlERf),     .  .       .        .  , 

III.  A  I,  Fresco,  .... 

20 

IV.  At  Sant*  Agnese,    -        .        .     ■ 

I  *        -        -        -  37 

V.     CJos.sip,  ... 

37 

VI.     The  Co.mmon  Pump  in  Action       .        . 
Vn.     Sir  Emery  and  Lady  Gascoyne  at  Home,      -        .      53 

VFIF.     Paul's  Adviser.       ...  , 

•  "        "        -        -  63 

IX.     Temptation.         ... 

•  -        -        -        -      72 

X.  The  Heiress  is  Willing,       .....  g, 

XI.  Bkiiini)  the  Scenes,     . 

XII.  A  Chance  Acquaintance, 

XIII.  Brother  and  Sister 

XIV.  The  Coming  of  Age  of  the  Heir  of  the  Title.         119 
XV.  Committee  of  Supply.        .        .  .»q 

'  "  *  -  -      128 

XVI.     Fortune  Favors  the  Brave ,-- 

XVII.     Revolutionary  Schemes.   ... 

XVIII.     In  Good  .Society     - 

XIX.    Idyls  of  Youth.  ... 

'  -        -       -       -    167 

XX.  Breaking  the  Ice,  ---.... 

XXI.  Coincidences.       ... 

XXII.  Miss  Boyton  Plays  a  Card ,  . 

XXIII.  An  Unexpected  Visitor,    .... 

XXIV.  Honors,    -       ....        _^ 

XXV.    Compensation.     . 

'  217 

r 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


cMArrRR 

XXVI.  An  Introdittion,     .... 

XXVn.  Till    WiiK.s  OK  niK  Stranck  Woman, 

XXVIII,  TiiK  Mak«)Nf.t«y  in   ink  Uai.ance,    . 

XXIX.  In  Mot  I'iirsimt, 

XXX.  At  TIIK  Cai.i,  ok  Dity,     • 

XXXI.  "  I,K  Roi  F.ST  Mort  :  ViVK  i.K  Roi!" 

XXXII.  Tin;  Hiiiiii.i.  Ill  RSTs, - 

XXXIII.  KAsmoNAIII.K    iNri'.I.I.ICKNCK,   . 

XXXIV.  Marria(;k  in  lluni  Likk, 

XXXV.  A  Plan  of  Ca.mi'AKjn,    .... 

XXXVI.  TlIK    I'l-AN    rR()(;KKSSKS, 

XXXVII.  TiiK  Plan  in  Action,    -        -        - 

XX.WIII.  ()\   riiK  Tra<k  of   iiik  I<oiihj-,r, 

XXXIX.  IIiNTKi)  Down, 

XL.  "  CoRNWAi.i.,  TO  Wit,"      . 

XI, I.  A  Rksci;e, 

XI, 1 1.  TiiK  Thief  is  Arrestf.I),   - 

XLIII.  Rf.i.ict  OK  TIIK  Late  Lionel  Solomons, 

KLIV.  "  A  Modern  Miracle," 

XLV.  Pressure  and  Tension,     - 

XLVI.  A  Transaction  in  Diamonds, 

XLVII.  **  PuTTiNo  on  THE  Screws," 

XLVIII.  Mr.  Solomons  Comes  Out,  - 

XLIX.  To  Paris  and  Back,  Sixty  Shillings, 

L.  A  Fall  in  Ceniral  Southerns,  - 

LI.  Catastrophe, 

Lll.  Estate  of  the  Late  J.  1'.  Solomons, 


PACK 

324 

■   235 

343 

•  350 

257 

•  364 

871 

.  380 

389 

.  397 

■     308 

.    .   318 

336 

•  334 

340 

-  348 

356 

•  363 

-  372 

379 

-  386 

393 

-  401 

408 

-  415 

423 

•  430 

il 


THE    SCALLYWAG. 


CHAPTKR  I. 


IN    WINTER  QUARTERS. 

"  For  my  part,"  said  Arniitage,  "  I  call  him  a  scallywag." 

'•What's  a  scallywag  ?"  Nea  Blair  asked,  looking  up  at 
him  from  her  seat  with  inquiring  wonder. 

Armitage  paused  a  moment,  and  perused  his  boots.  It's 
so  hard  on  a  fellow  to  be  pounced  upon  like  that  for  a  defi- 
nition  offhand.  "  VVell,  a  scallywag,"  he  answered,  leaning 
his  back  for  moral  support  against  the  big  eucalyptus  tree 
beside  which  he  stood,  *'  a  scallywag,  I  should  say,  well — 
well,  is — why,  he's  the  sort  of  man,  you  know,  you  wouldn't 
like  to  be  seen  walking  down  Piccadilly  with." 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  Nea  exclaimed,  with  a  bright  little  laugh. 
"  You  mean,  if  you  were  walking  down  Piccadilly,  yourself, 
in  a  frock  coat  and  shiny  tall  hat,  with  an  orchid  from 
Bull's  stuck  in  your  buttonhole  !  Then  1  think,  Mr.  Armi- 
tage, I  rather  like  scallywags." 

Mme.  Ceriolo  brought  her  eyes  (and  eyeglasses)  back 
from  space,  where  they  had  been  firmly  fixed  on  a  point  in 
the  heavens  at  an  infinite  distance,  and  ejaculated  in  mild 
and  solemn  surprise,  "  But  why,  my  dear  Nea  ? " 

"  Oh,  because,  madame,  scallywags  are  always  far  the 
most  interesting  people  in  the  world.     They're    so  much 


THE   SCALLYWAG, 


li 


more  likely  to  be  ori(|;inaI  and  nmuHing  than  all  the  rest  of 
us.  Artists  and  authors,  for  example,  are  almost  always 
scallywags." 

•♦  What  a  gross  libel  on  two  liberal  professions  !  "  Armi- 
tage  put  in  with  a  shucked  expression  of  face.  lie  dabbled 
in  water  colors  as  an  amateur  himself,  and  therefore  con- 
sidered he  was  very  nearly  implicated  in  this  wholesale 
condemnation  of  Art  and  Literature. 

"As  far  as  I'm  concerned,"  Mme.  Ceriolo  said,  with 
angelic  softness,  rearranging  \\tx pince-nez^  '*I  hate  origin- 
ality.  And  I'm  not  very  fond  of  artists  or  authors.  Why 
should  people  wish  to  be  different  from  their  fellow 
Christians  ?" 

"  Who  is  it  you're  calling  a  scallywag,  anyway  ? "  Isa- 
bel Boyton  asked  from  her  seat  beyond,  with  her  clear 
American  accent.  If  Mme.  Ceriolo  was  going  to  start  an 
abstract  discussion  on  an  ethical  question  of  wide  extent, 
Isabel  meant  with  Philadelphian  practicality,  to  nail  her 
down  at  once  to  the  matter  in  hand,  and  resolutely  resist 
all  attempts  at  digression. 

"Why,  this  new  man,  Gascoyne,"  Armitage  drawled  out 
in  answer,  annexing  a  vacant  chair  just  abandoned  by  a  fat 
old  Frenchman  in  the  background  by  the  caf^,  and  seating 
himself  opposite  them. 

"  It's  a  good  name,  Gascoyne,"  Nea  suggested  quietly. 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  Miss  Boyton  echoed,  with  American 
promptitude.  "  A  first-rate  name.  I've  read  it  in  a  history 
book." 

"But  a  good  name  doesn't  count  for  much  nowadays," 
Mme.  Ceriolo  .iterposed,  and  then  straightway  repented 
her.  Anybody  can  assume  a  good  name,  of  course ;  but 
surely  she  was  the  last  person  on  earth  who  ought  to  have 
called  attention  just  then  to  the  facility  of  the  assumption. 
For  did  she  not  print  a  countess*  coronet  on  top  of  her  own 


¥%*. 


tN   WINTER  QVARTERS,  % 

card  on  no  better  title  ;  and  was  not  her  vogue  in  Rivieran 
society  entirely  due  to  nor  personal  assertion  of  her  relation- 
ship to  the  Ceriolos  of  Castle  Ceriulo  in  the  Austrian 
Tyrol  ? 

"Well,  he's  a  nice-looking  young  fellow  enough,"  Nea 
added,  pleading  his  caiisr  with  warmth,  for  she  had  com- 
nulled  herself  lo  Mr.  (lascoync's  case  now,  and  she  was 
([uiie  determined  he  should  have  an  invitation. 

"  Besides,  we're  awfully  short  of  gentlemen,"  Isabel  Boy- 
ton  put  in  sharply.  ••  I  haven't  seen  him,  but  a  man's  a 
man.  I  don't  care  whether  he  i  \  scallywag  or  not,  I  mean 
to  go  for  him."  And  she  jotted  ci  jwu  the  name  on  her  list 
at  unce  without  waiting  to  hear  Mme.  Ceriolo  for  the  pros- 
ecution. 

It  was  seasonable  weather  at  Mentone  for  the  20th  of 
December.  The  sky  was  as  cloudlessly  blue  as  July,  and 
from  the  southern  side  of  the  date-palms  on  the  Jardin 
Public,  where  they  all  sat  basking  in  the  warm  rays  of  the 
sun,  the  great  jagged  peaks  of  the  bare  mountains  in  the 
rear  showed  distinct  and  hard  against  a  deep  sapphire  back- 
ground. A  few  hundred  feet  below  the  summit  of  one  of 
the  tallest  and  most  rugged,  the  ruined  walls  of  the  Saracen 
fortress  of  Sant'  Agnese  just  caught  the  light  ;  and  it  was 
to  that  airy  platform  that  Nea  and  Isabel  proposed  their 
joint  picnic  for  the  twenty-fourth — the  day  before  Christ- 
mas. And  the  question  under  debate  at  that  particular 
moment  was  simply  this — who  should  be  invited  by  the  two 
founders  of  the  feast,  each  alternately  adding  a  name  to  her 
own  list  according  to  fancy. 

"Well,  \lyou  take  Mr.  Gascoyne,"  Nea  said,  with  a  faint 
air  of  disappointment  at  losing  her  guest,  "/  shall  take 
Mr.  Thistleton." 

And  she  proceeded  to  inscribe  him. 

"  But,  Nea,  my  dear,"  Mme.  Ceriolo  broke  in  with  an 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


; 


admirable  show  of  maternal  solicitude,  "who  is  Mr.  Gas- 
coynu,  and  who  is  Mr.  Thistleton  ?  I  think  we  ought  to 
make  sure  of  that.  I  haven't  even  heard  their  names 
before.     Are  they  in  society  ?  " 

"  Oh,  they're  all  right,  I  guess,"  Isabel  Boyton  answered 
briskly,  looking  up  much  amused.  "  Mamma  was  talking 
to  them  on  the  promenade  yesterday,  and  she  says  she 
apprehends  Mr.  Thistleton's  got  money,  and  Mr.  Gas- 
coyne's  got  brains  if  he  aint  got  family.  They  can  just 
come  right  along.     Don't  you  be  afraid,  madame." 

**  Your  mamma's  opinion  is  very  reassuring,  no  doubt," 
Mme.  Ceriolo  continued  dryly,  as  one  who  liked  not  the 
security,  and  in  a  voice  that  half  mimicked  Isabel's  frank 
Americanism  ;  "  but  still,  as  being  in  charge  of  dear  Nea's 
conduct  and  society  while  she  remains  at  Mentone,  I  should 
prefer  to  feel  certain,  before  we  commit  ourselves  to  in- 
viting them,  exactly  who  these  young  men  are.  The  fact 
that  they're  stopping  at  a  decent  hotel  in  the  town  is  not 
in  itself  sufficient.  Such  very  odd  people  get  into  good 
hotels  on  the  Riviera  someti  nes." 

And  Mme.  Ceriolo,  measuring  Isabel  through  her  eye- 
glasses with  a  strong  stare,  drew  herself  up  with  a  poker 
down  her  back,  in  perfect  imitation  of  the  stereotyped 
British  matronly  exclusiveness. 

The  fact  was,  having  accepted  the  post  of  chaperon- 
companion  to  Nea  Blair  for  the  winter,  Mme.  Ceriolo  was 
laudably  anxious  to  perform  her  part  in  that  novel  capacity 
with  strict  propriety  and  attention  to  detail ;  but,  never 
having  tried  her  hand  at  the  proprieties  in  her  life  before, 
and  being  desirous  now  of  observing  them  to  the  utmost 
letter  of  the  law,  if  anything,  she  rather  overdid  it  than 
otherwise. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Armitage,"  Nea  said  mischievously,  "  it's  you 
who're   responsible   for  our  original   introduction   to  the 


^ 


IN   WINTER  QUARTERS,  % 

scallywag  and  his  friend.  Speak  up  for  their  antecedents  ! 
You've  got  to  account  for  your  acquaintances  to  madame." 
And  she  drew  a  circle  with  her  parasol  on  the  gravel-path 
as  if  to  point  the  moral  of  the  impossibilities  of  his  ever 
escaping  them. 

"  Well,  to  begin  with,  they're  Oxford  men/'  Armitage 
said,  clearing  his  throat  and  looking  dubiously  about  him. 
"  They're  both  of  them  Oxford  men." 

Mme.  Ceriolo's  back  relaxed  somewhat.  "  Oh,  Oxford 
men,"  she  answered  in  an  appeased  voice.  "  That's  always 
something."  Then,  after  a  pause,  under  her  breath,  to 
herself,  "  Ja  wohl^ja  wohl !     Cest  totijours  quelque  chose'' 

It  was  part  of  Mme.  Ceriolo's  point,  in  fact,  as  a  cosmo- 
politan woman  of  the  world,  that  she  always  thought  to 
herself  in  French  or  German,  and  translated  aloud,  as  it 
were,  into  English.  It  called  attention  now  and  again  in 
passing  to  what  casual  observers  might  otherwise  have  over- 
looked— her  Tyrolese  origin  and  her  Parisian  training. 

"  And  Gascoyne,  the  scallywag,"  Armitage  went  on 
reflectively,  "  appears  to  be  a  sort  of  tutor  or  something  of 
the  kind  to  the  other  one,  Thistleton." 

Mme.  Ceriolo's  back  collapsed  altogether.  "  An  Oxford 
tutor  I"  she  cried,  smiling  most  genially.  "Why,  that's 
quite  respectable.  The  pink  of  propriety.  Tout  ce  qu'il  a 
de plus  comme  il  faut !    Nothing  could   be  more   proper." 

"  I  don't  think  he's  exactly  a  tutor.  Not  in  the  sense  you 
mean,"  Armitage  continued  hastily,  afraid  of  guaranteeing 
the  scallywag  too  far.  "  I  think  he's  merely  come  abroad  for 
t^e  vacation,  you  know,  bringing  this  other  young  fellow 
along  with  him  as  a  private  pupil,  to  give  him  a  few  hours' 
reading  and  accompany  him  generally.  I  fancy  he  hasn't 
taken  his  own  degree  yet." 

"  Then  they're  both  of  them  students  still  ! "  Isabel  Boy- 
ton  interjected.    "  Oh,  my  !    Aint  that  nice  !     Two  Oxford 


h 


!,    . 


I- 


6  7//E   SCALLYWAG. 

Students  !  You  always  read  in  English  books,  you  know, 
about  students  at  Oxford." 

Armitage  smiled. 

"  We  don't  call  them  students  at  Oxford  or  Cambridge  ; 
though,  for  obvious  reasons,"  he  said,  with  British  tolerance 
for  transatlantic  ignorance  ;  "  we  know  too  well  what 
they  go  there  for,  Miss  Boyton,  for  that.  We  call  them 
undergraduates." 

"Well,  undergraduates,  anyway,"  Isabel  answered  good- 
humoredly.  She  was  accustomed  to  snubbing.  "  It  don't 
much  matter  what  you  call  them,  I  guess,  as  long  as  they're 
men,  and  come  from  Oxford.  Are  you  satisfied  about  them 
now,  in  your  own  mind,  Mme.  Ceriolo  ? " 

Mme.  Ceriolo  smiled  her  gracious  little  smile.  She 
was  as  pretty  and  well-preserved  a  woman  of  forty  as  you 
Would  wish  to  see  across  a  table  d'hdte  at  dinner  any  day. 

"If  they're  really  Oxford  men,  and  your  mamma 
approves  of  them,"  she  replied,  with  just  the  faintest  little 
undertone  of  malice,  "  I  am  sure  they'll  be  an  acquisition 
to  Mentone  society.  Though  I  could  wish  that  one  of 
them  was  not  a  scallywag,  if  Mr.  Armitage  has  explained 
the  meaning  of  the  name  he  applies  to  him  correctly." 

"  Chut ! "  Armitage  murmured  in  a  gentle  undertone. 
"  Talk  of  the  devil !     Here  comes  Thistleton  ! " 

"  We  say  in  Austria,  '  Speak  of  an  angel,  and  you  hear 
the  rustle  of  his  wings,*"  madat;|^  answered  demurely. 
"  C'est  plus  poli,  notre  proverbe  \  nous  ;  n'est-ce  pas,  mon- 
sieur ?  And  which  is  Thistleton  ?  The  pupil  or  the 
scallywag  ? " 

"  The  pupil,"  Armitage  whispered,  in  a  flutter  of  uneasi- 
ness. "  But  take  care — take  care  !  He'll  see  we're  talking 
of  him." 

"  The  pupil !  Cest  Men  !  "  madame  mused  in  reply. 
And  in  effect  it  was  well ;  for  experience  and  analogy  led 


! 


IN   WINTER  QUARTERS. 


her  to  conclude  that  the  pupil  is  usually  richer  in  this 
world's  goods  than  his  master  or  instructor. 

••  Though  after  all,"  madame  reflected  to  herself  wisely, 
"  it  isn't  always  the  richest  people,  either,  you  can  get  most 
out  of." 

Her  reflections,  however,  philosophical  as  they  might  be, 
were  cut  short  by  the  arrival  of  the  pupil  himself,  whom 
Armitage  advanced  to  greet  with  friendly  right  hand,  and 
presented  duly  to  the  ladies  of  the  party. 

'•  Mme.  Ceriolo,  Miss  Boyton,  Miss  Blair  ;  Mr.  Thistle- 
ton." 

The  new  comer  bowed.  He  was  a  blond  young  man, 
tall,  hearty,  and  athletic,  with  a  complexion  indicative  of 
serious  attention  to  beefsteak  for  breakfast,  and  he  wore  a 
well  made  knickerbocker  suit  that  suggested  unlimited 
credit  at  a  West  End  tailor's. 

Mme.  Ceriolo  cast  her  keen  black  eyes  over  him  once 
from  head  to  foot,  through  those  impassive  glasses,  and 
summed  him  up  mentally  at  a  glance  to  herself ;  manu- 
facturing interest,  rich,  good-humored,  a  fool  with  his 
money,  strong,  handsome,  Britannic — the  kind  of  young 
man,  in  fact,  who,  under  other  circumstances,  it  might  have 
been  well  for  a  woman  of  the  world  to  cultivate.  But  then 
— dear  Nea  !  that  excellent  Mr.  Blair  ;  the  Cornish  rectory; 
her  British  respectability  !  Madame  drew  herself  up  once 
more  at  the  thought,  and  bowed  stiffly. 

"  Now,  Nea,  say  he's  yours ;  you've  got  to  ask  him," 
Isabel  Boyton  remarked  after  the  usual  formalities  of  the 
weather  report  and    the  bill    of  health   had  been   duly 

exchanged  by  either  party.     "  The  seal "  she  checked 

herself  ;  even  transatlantic  freedom  of  speech  has  its  final 
limits.  "  Mr.  Gascoyne's  mine,  and  Mr.  Thistleton's  yours, 
you  know.  So  fire  away,  there's  a  dear.  *0n  Saturday 
next — the  p/easure  of  your  company  ! '  " 


i  THE   SCALLYWAG, 

"What  is  it  ?**  the  blond  young  man  asked  with  a  good- 
humored  smile.     "  Tennis  ?  a  dinner  ?  a  tea  fight  ?" 

"  Oh,  dear,  no ;  only  a  picnic,  Mr.  Thistleton,"  Nea 
answered,  blushing  ;  a  blush  through  that  clear  rich  olive- 
dusky  skin  is  so  very  becoming.  "  Miss  Boyton  and  I  are 
stopping  at  the  Hotel  des  Rives  d'Or,  and  we've  got  up  a 
little  entertainment  of  our  own " 

"  With  Mamma  and  Mme.  Ceriolo,"  Isabel  interposed 
promptly,  to  save  the  convenances. 

"  To  Sant'  Agnese  on  the  hill-top  there,"  Nea  went  on, 
without  noticing  the  interruption.  "  It's  on  Saturday  the 
twenty-fourth — the  day  before  Christmas.  Are  you  and 
Mr.  Gascoyne  engaged  for  Saturday  ? " 

"  Now,  you're  asking  my  man,  too,"  Isabel  put  in,  pre- 
tending to  be  vexed.  "  And  I  was  going  to  write  hiia  such 
a  sweetly  pretty  invitation  !  " 

"  We're  not  engaged,  as  far  as  I'm  concerned,"  Thistleton 
answered,  seating  himself.  "  I  shall  be  awfully  delighted. 
But  I'm  not  so  sure  about  Gascoyne,  Miss  Blair.  He's 
such  a  shy  sort  of  fellow,  he  won't  go  out.  However,  I'll 
convey  Miss  Boyton's  message  to  him." 

"  But  the  trouble  is,"  Isabel  said,  glancing  seaward, 
"that  every  man  Jack  of  us  is  to  go  on  a  donkey." 

"And  this  meeting  cordially  recognizes  the  principle," 
Armitage  put  in  from  behind,  "  that  every  man  Jack  of  us, 
as  Miss  Boyton  so  charmingly  phrases  it,  is  to  engage,  pro- 
vide, hire,  and  pay  for  his  own  animal." 

"  Where's  Sant'  Agnese  ? "  the  blonde  young  man 
inquired,  looking  about  him  vaguely. 

Armitage  and  Miss  Boyton  pointed  it  out  together  at 
once  (of  course  in  different  places)  ;  and  Armitage's,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  happened  to  be  the  right  one.  Such  is  the 
perversity  of  men  that  they  actually  insist  upon  being  un- 
usually accurate  in  these  unimportant  details). 


IN    WINTER   QIARTERS. 


h  a  good- 

?" 

on,"   Nea 

rich  olive- 

and  I  are 

got  up  a 

"  Why,  I  could  hop  that  lot  on  one  foot,"  Thistleton  ex- 
claimed contemptuously.  **  I'll  walk,  Miss  Blair.  1  don't 
need  any  donkey." 

"  But  you  don't  understand,"  Armitage  answered,  smil- 
ing. "  The  point  of  this  particular  entertainment  is  that 
it's  to  be  fundamentally  and  essentially  an  exclusive 
donkey-picnic." 

"  For  which  reason,  Mr.  Armitage,  we've  included  you 
in  it,"  Isabel  remarked  parenthetically,  in  a  stage  under- 
tone. 

Armitage  severely  ignored  the  cheap  witticism.  A  man 
of  culture  can  afford  to  ignore  Pennsylvanian  pleasantry. 
"And  it  would  mar  the  harmony  of  the  entertainment,"  he 
continued,"  as  bland  as  ever,  "  if  any  of  us  were  to  insist  on 
going  upon  our  natural  organs  of  locomotion." 

"  Meaning  our  legs,"  Nea  added,  in  explanation,  for  the 
blond  young  man  seemed  helplessly  involved  in  doubt  as 
to  Armitage's  meaning. 

Isabel  Boyton  glanced  down  at  the  ground  with  modest 
coyness.  "  Limbs,  we  say,  in  America,"  she  murmured  half- 
inaudibly,  to  herself,  with  a  rising  blush. 

"  We  are  all  vertebrate  animals,"  Armitage  responded 
with  cheerful  ease.  "  Why  seek  to  conceal  the  fact  ?  Well, 
you  see,  Thistleton,  the  joke  is  just  this  ;  we  shall  start 
some  ten  or  fifteen  donkey-power  strong,  all  in  a  row,  to 
scale  the  virgin  heights  of  Sant'  Agnese — is  '  virgin  heights  * 
permissible  in  America,  Miss  Boyton  ? — and  if  any  one  of  us 
were  ignobly  to  walk  by  the  side,  he'd  be  taking  a  mean 
advantage  of  all  the  remainder." 

"In  short,  we  mean  to  make  ourselves  ridiculous  in  a 
lot,"  Nea  said,  coming  to  the  rescue ;  **  and  none  of  us 
must  be  less  ridiculous  than  the  main  body.  You  can't 
think  what  fun  it  is,  Mr.  Thistleton,  and  what  a  cavalcade 
we  shall  make,  zigzagging  up  and  down  the  mountain  side 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


like  so  many  billy-goats.  Why,  fat  old  Mrs.  Newton  at  our 
hotel's  going  to  come  on  purpose — if  she  can  get  any 
donkey  in  Mentone  strong  enough  to  carry  her." 

"  The  true  philosopher,"  Armitage  observed  senten. 
tiously,  "  is  never  deterred  from  doing  that  which  suits  his 
own  convenience  by  the  consideration  that  he  is  at  the  same 
time  affording  an  innocent  amusement  to  other  people." 

The  blond  young  man  yielded  with  grace  forthwith. 
"  Oh,  if  it's  only  a  case  of  making  myself  ridiculous  to 
please  the  company,"  he  said,  with  native  good  humor, 
"  I'm  all  tnere.  It's  my  usual  attitude.  I  accept  the 
donkey  and  the  invitation.  When  and  where  do  we  start  ? 
We  must  have  a  rendezvous." 

"  At  the  Gare,  at  ten  sharp,"  Nea  said,  ticking  him  off 
on  her  list  of  the  apprised.  "  And  mind  you  order  your 
donkeys  well  beforehand,  for  there'll  be  a  brisk  demand. 
Every  donkey  in  Mentone'll  be  in  requisition  for  the  picnic." 

Mme.  Ceriolo  sighed.  "  What  a  character  you're  giving 
us  ! "  she  exclaimed  lackadaisically.  "  But,  never  mind, 
my  child  ;  iajeunesse  s'amusera** 

And  she  looked  as  young  and  pretty  herself,  when  she 
smiled,  as  a  woman  of  forty  can  ever  reasonably  be  expected 
to  do. 

CHAPTER  II. 

ROOM    FOR   THE   HERO.      , 


An  hour  later  the  blond  young  man  pursued  the  even 
tenor  of  his  way,  assisted  by  a  cigar  and  swinging  a  stout 
green  orange  stick  in  his  hand,  along  the  Promenade  du 
Midi,  the  main  lounge  of  Mentone,  toward  the  Hotel  Conti- 
nental. Arrived  at  the  grand  staircase  of  that  palatial  cara- 
vanserai, the  most  fashionable  in  the  town,  he  leapt  lightly 
up  three  steps  al  a  time  into  the  entrance-hall,  and  calling 


ROOM  FOR    THE  HERO. 


SI 


out,  "  Here  you,  sir !  "  in  his  native  tongue — for  he  was  no 
hiiguist — to  the  boy  at  the  Uft,  mounted  hydraulically, 
whistling  as  he  went,  to  the  second  story.  There  he  burst 
into  the  neatly  furnished  sitting  room,  being  a  boisterous 
young  man  most  heedless  of  the  conventions,  and,  flinging 
his  hat  on  the  table  and  himself  into  an  easy-chair  before 
the  superfluous  fire,  exclaimed  in  a  loud  and  jolly  voice  to 
his  companion,  "  I  say,  Gascoyne,  here's  games  to  the  fore  ! 
I've  got  an  invitation  for  you." 

His  friend  looked  up  inquiringly.  "Who  from?"  he 
asked,  laying  down  his  pen  and  rising  from  his  desk  to  sun 
himself  in  the  broad  flood  of  light  by  the  window. 

"A  pretty  American,"  Thistleton  answered,  knocking  off 
his  ashes  into  the  basket  of  olive-wood.  "  No  end  of  a 
stunner !  " 

"  But  I  don't  know  her,"  Paul  Gascoyne  gasped  out, 
with  a  half  terrified  look. 

"  So  much  the  better,"  his  companion  retorted  imperturb- 
ably.  "  If  a  lady  falls  over  head  and  ears  in  love  with  you 
merely  fro.n  seeing  your  manly  form  in  the  street,  without 
ever  having  so  much  as  exchanged  a  single  word  with 
you,  the  compliment's  a  higher  one,  of  course,  than  if 
she  waited  to  learn  all  your  virtues  and  accomplishments 
in  the  ordinary  manner." 

"  Dinner  ? "  Gascoyne  asked  with  a  dubious  glance 
toward  his  bedroom  door.  He  was  thinking  how  far  his 
evening  apparel  would  carry  him  unaided. 

"  No,  not  dinner  ;  a  picnic,  next  Saturday  as  ever  was," 
Thistleton  replied,  all  unconscious.  "  The  ladies  of  the 
Rives  d'Or  invite  us  both  to  lunch  with  them  on  the  green 
up  yonder  at  Sant'  Agnese.  It's  an  awful  lark.  And  the 
pretty  American's  dying  to  see  you.  She  says  she's  heard 
so  much  about  you " 

"  A  picnic  !  "  Paul  interposed,  cutting  him  short  at  once, 


la 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


\ 


and  distinctly  relieved  by  learning  of  this  lesser  evil. 
"Well,  I  daresay  I  can  let  it  run  to  a  picnic.  That  won't 
dip  into  much.  But  how  did  the  ladies  at  the  Rives  d'Or 
ever  come  at  all  to  cognize  my  humble  existence  ?  " 

Thistleton  smiled  ;  an  abstruse  smile.  "  Why,  Armitage 
told  them,  I  suppose,"  he  answered  carelessly.  ••  But  do 
you  really  imagine,  at  the  present  time  of  day,  my  dear  fel- 
low, every  girl  in  the  place  doesn't  know  at  once  the  name, 
antecedents,  position,  and  prospects  of  every  young  man 
of  marriageable  age  that  by  any  chance  comes  into  it  ?  Do 
you  think  they  haven't  spotted  the  fashionable  intelligence 
that  two  real  live  Oxford  men  are  stopping  at  the  Conti- 
nental  ?  I  should  rather  say  so  !  Gascoyne,  my  boy,  keep 
your  eyes  open.  We've  our  price  in  the  world.  Mind  you 
always  remember  it !  " 

Paul  Gascoyne  smiled  uneasily.  "  I  wish  I  could  think 
so,"  he  murmured  half  aloud. 

"  Yes,  weVe  our  price  in  the  world,"  his  friend  con- 
tinued slowly,  cigar  turned  downward  and  lips  pursed, 
musing.  "  The  eligible  young  man  is  fast  becoming  an 
extinct  animal.  The  supply  by  no  means  equals  the 
demand.  And  the  result's  as  usual.  We're  at  a  premium 
in  society,  and,  as  economic  units,  we  must  govern  our- 
selves accordingly." 

"  Ah,  that's  all  very  well  for  rich  men  like  you,"  Paul 
began  hurriedly. 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  say,"  Thistleton  cried,  rising  and 
fronting  him  with  a  jerk,  "  that  half  the  women  one  meets 
wouldn't  be  only  too  glad  to  marry  the  son  and  heir  of  a 
British  bar " 

Before  he  could  utter  the  word  that  was  gurgling  in  his 
throat,  however,  Gascoyne  had  clapped  his  hand  upon  that 
imprudent  mouth,  and  cried  out  in  a  perfect  agony  of  dis- 
gust, "  No    more    of  that  nonsense,  for   Heaven's  sake, 


HOOM  FOR   THE  HERO. 


n 


Thistleton  !  I  hope  you  liaven't  breathed  a  word  about  it 
to  anybody  here  in  Meutone  ?  If  yuu  have,  I  think  I  shall 
(lie  of  shame.  I'll  take  the  very  next  train  back  to  Paris, 
i  swear,  and  never  come  near  either  you  or  the  place  as 
long  as  I  live,  again." 

Thistleton  sat  down,  red-faced,  but  sobered.  "  Honor 
bright,  not  a  word  ! "  he  answered,  gazing  hard  at  his  com- 
panion. •*  I've  never  so  much  as  even  alluded  to  it.  The 
golden-haired  Pennsylvanian  was  trying  to  pump  me  all 
she  knew,  I  confess  ;  but  I  listened  not  to  the  voice  of  the 
charmer,  charmed  she  never  so  wisely  through  her  neat 
little  nose.  I  resisted  the  siren  like  bricks,  and  kept  my 
own  counsel.  Now,  don't  cut  up  rusty  about  it,  there's  a 
good  sensible  fellow.  If  a  man's  father  does  happen  to  be 
born " 

Hut  a  darted  look  from  Gascoyne  cut  him  short  once 
more  with  unspoken  remonstrance,  and  he  contented  him- 
self with  pulling  down  his  collar  and  flashing  his  shirt-cuffs 
to  imitate  in  pantomine  a  general  air  of  close  connection 
with  the  British  aristocracy. 

There  was  a  short  pause,  during  which  Thistleton  slowly 
puffed  his  cigar,  while  Paul  looked  out  of  the  window  in 
meditative  mood  and  scanned  the  blue  bay  and  purple  sea, 
with  Bordighera  shining  white  on  its  promontory  in  the 
distance. 

It  would  have  been  impossible  for  anybody  to  deny,  as 

you  saw  him  then,  that  Paul  Gascoyne  was  essentially  a 

scallywag.     He   looked    the   character  to   perfection.     It 

wasn't  merely  that  his  coat,  though  carefully  brushed  and 

conserved,  had  seen  long  service  and  honorable  scars  ;  it 

[Wasn't  merely  that  his  tie  was  narrow  and  his  collar  dimodi^ 

[and  his  trousers  baggy,  and  his  shoes  antique;  it  wasn't 

[merely  that   honest   poverty  peeped  out  of  every  fold  and 

crease  in  his  threadbare  raiment ;  the  man  himself  had 


•  4 


M 


THE  SCAl.l.  YWAG. 


something  of  that  shy  and  shrinking  air  which  belongs  by 
nature  to  those  poor  souls  who  slink  along  timidly  through 
the  back  alleys  of  life,  and  fear  to  tread  with  a  free  and 
open  footstep  the  main  highways  of  respectable  humanity. 
Not  that,  on  the  other  hand,  tiiere  was  anything  mean  or 
small  in  Paul  (lascoyne's  face  or  bearing  ;  on  the  contrary, 
he  looked  every  inch  a  man,  and  to  those  who  can  see 
below  the  surface,  a  gentleman  also.  He  was  tall  and 
well-built,  with  handsome  features  and  copious  black  hair, 
that  showed  off  his  fine  eyes  and  high  white  forehead  to 
great  advantage.  But  the  day  of  small  things  had  weighed 
upon  him  heavily  ;  the  iron  of  poverty  and  ancestral  care 
had  entered  into  his  soul.  'I'he  sordid  shifts  and  petty 
subterfuges  of  a  life  harder  than  that  of  his  companions 
and  fellow  students  had  left  their  mark  deep  upon  his  form 
and  features.  He  was,  in  short,  what  Armitage  had  called 
him,  in  spite  of  his  good  looks — an  obvious  scallywag, 
nothing  more  or  less  :  a  person  rightly  or  wrongly  con- 
scious that,  by  accident  or  demerit,  he  fills  a  minor  place  in 
the  world's  esteem  and  the  world's  consideration. 

He  stood  and  gazed  out  of  the  vindow  abstractedly, 
reflecting  to  himself  after  all  that  a  climb  up  those  glorious 
gray  crags  to  Sant'  Agnese  would  be  far  from  unpleasant, 
even  though  clogged  by  a  golden-haired  Pennsylvanian,  no 
doubt  wealthy,  if  only — when  suddenly  Thistleton  recalled 
him  to  himself  by  adding,  in  an  after-thought,  "  And  we've 
got  to  order  our  donkeys  early,  for  donkeys,  too,  will  be  at 
a  premium  on  Saturday.  Political  economy  very  much 
to  the  front.  Supply  and  demand,  again,  unequally 
balanced." 

Paul  glanced  up  at  the  silent  rocks  once  more — great 
lonely  tors  that  seemed  to  pierce  the  blue  with  their  gigan- 
tic aiguilles — and  answered  quietly,  "  I  think  I  shall  walk, 
for  my  own  part,  Thistleton.     It  can't  be  more  than  a 


\ 


aoO.yf  FOK    THE  HERO. 


«S 


couple  of  thousand  feet  or  so  up,  and  half  a  dozen  miles 
across  country  as  the  crow  flics.  Just  al)<)ut  enough  to 
yivc  one  an  appetite  for  one's  lunch  when  one  gets  there." 

'*  Ah,  but  the  pretty  American's  commands  are  abso- 
hile — every  man  Jack  to  ride  his  own  donkey.  They  say 
it's  such  fun  going  up  in  a  body  like  so  many  fools ;  and  if 
everybody's  going  to  make  himself  a  fool  for  once,  I  don't 
(il)ject  to  bearing  my  part  in  it."  And  the  blond  young 
man  leaned  back  in  his  easy-chair  and  stuck  his  boots  on 
the  fender  with  a  tolerant  air  of  perfect  contentment  with 
all  mankind  and  the  constitution  of  the  universe. 

"  I  shall  walk,"  Paul  murmured  again,  not  dogmatically, 
but  as  one  who  wishes  to  settle  a  question  offhand. 

'•  Look  here,  now,  Gascoyne,  as  the  Highland  meenister 
said  in  his  prayer,  this  is  clean  rideeklous.  Do  you  mean 
to  say  you're  too  grand  to  ride  a  donkey  ?  You  think  it 
infra  dig.  for  a  B.  of  B.  K. — there,  will  that  suit  you  ? — to 
be  seen  on  a  beast  which  is  quite  good  enough " 

Paul  cut  him  short  once  more  with  a  gesture  of  impa- 
tience. "  It's  unkind  of  you,  Thistleton,"  he  said,  "  to  go  on 
harping  so  often  on  that  threadbare  string,  when  you  see 
how  very  much  pain  and  annoyance  it  causes  me.  You 
know  it's  not  that.  Heaven  knows  I'm  not  proud — not 
that  way,  at  least — what  on  earth  have  I  got  not  to  be 
ashamed  of  ?  No,  the  simple  truth  is,  if  you  must  have  it, 
I  don't  want  to  go  to  the  expense  of  a  donkey." 

"  My  dear  fellow  !  Why,  it's  only  five  francs  for  the 
whole  day,  they  tell  me." 

Paul  Gascoyne  smiled.  •*  But  five  francs  is  a  considera- 
tion to  me,"  he  answered,  after  a  slight  mental  reckoning. 
'*  Fifty  pence,  you  see ;  that's  four  and  twopence.  Four 
and  twopence  is  an  awful  lot  of  money  to  fling  away  for 
nothing  !  "  And  he  rearranged  the  logs  on  the  fire  reflec- 
tively. 


li 


THE   SCALLYWAG, 


"Well,  loulc  here,  (iascoyne  ;  Kooner  than  mar  the  har- 
mony of  the  meeting,  I'll  tell  yuu  what  I'll  do — I'll  stand 
you  a  donkey." 

Paul  gave  a  little  start  of  surprise  and  uneasiness.  liis 
color  deepened.  "Oh,  no,"  he  said.  ••  Thistlelon,  I 
couldn't  allow  that,  if  I  go  at  all  I  shall  go  on 
my  own  legs,  or  else  take  a  beast  and  pay  my  own 
expenses." 

"  Who's  proud  now  ? "  the  blond  young  man  exclaimed, 
with  provoking  good  humor. 

Paul  looked  down  at  him  gravely  from  the  corner  of  the 
mantelpiece  on  which  his  arm  rested. 

"  Thistleton,"  he  said,  in  a  serious  voice,  growing  redder 
still  in  the  face  as  he  spoke,  "  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I'm 
ashamed  already  of  how  much  I'm  letting  you  do  for  me. 
When  I  first  arranged  to  come  aboard  with  you,  and  have 
my  expenses  paid,  I  hadn't  the  remotest  conception,  I 
assure  you,  of  what  an  awful  sum  the  expenses  would  come 
to.  I've  never  lived  at  an  hotel  like  this  before,  or  in  any- 
thing like  such  extravagant  luxury.  I  thought  the  ten 
pounds  I  charged  for  tuition  would  be  the  chief  item  ; 
instead  of  which,  I  see  now,  you've  already  paid  almost  as 
much  as  that  for  me  in  railway  fares  and  so  forth,  and  I 
tremble  to  think  how  much  more  you  may  have  to  pay  for 
my  board  and  lodging.  I  can't  let  you  stand  me  my  amuse- 
ments, too,  into  the  bargain." 

The  blond  young  man  puffed  away  at  his  cigar  for  a 
moment  or  so  with  vigorous  good  humor. 

"  What  a  devil  of  a  conscience  you've  got,"  he  observed 
at  last,  in  the  intervals  of  the  puffs  ;  *'  and  what  a  devil  of 
a  touchy  sense  of  honor,  as  well,  Gascoyne  !  I  suppose  it's 
in  the  family  !  Why,  it's  the  regular  rule,  if  you  take  a 
vacation  tutor  to  a  place  of  your  own  choice  abroad,  you 
pay  his  way  for  him.     I  call  it  only  fair.     You  contract  to 


/iOOAr  FOK    THE  HEKO, 


•f 


t\Q  it.  There's  no  oblnjaiion  on  tithcr  side.  A  mere 
matter  of  IjusincHs." 

"  Hut  you  come  to  such  a  j;raiul  hotel  ami  live  so  roy- 
ally !  "  Paul  objectctl  with  fervor. 

"Am  I  to  ^{o  to  a  cabaret  and  live  upon  garlic,  just  to 
suit  your  peculiar  views  of  expenditure?"  'I'histlctou 
retorted  with  spirit.  "  C'an  I  drink  sour  wine  and  eat  black 
btoad  because  you  like  to  be  ccononjical  ?  No,  no,  my 
(kar  fellow.  You  mistake  the  position.  1  want  to  come 
It)  Mentonc  for  the  winter.  Heastly  climate,  Yorkshire  ; 
dull  hole,  the  governor's  ;  lovely  coast,  the  Riviera  ;  Monte 
Carlo  always  laid  on  at  a  convenient  distance  ;  lots  of 
amusement  ;  plenty  of  fun  ;  the  very  place  to  spend  the 
(luistujas  vacation  in.  If  1  go  ami  say  to  the  governor  : 
'  Look  her*',  old  boy  :  I  want  a  pony  or  two  to  run  down 
south  and  amuse  myself,  just  to  escape  this  infernal  dull 
hole  of  yours,  ami  to  have  a  turn  or  two  at  roulette  or 
something,'  why  the  governor'd  no  doubt  advise  me  to  go 
and  be  hanged,  in  language  more  remarkable  for  its  force 
than  elegance.  Very  well,  then  ;  what  do  I  do  ?  1  go  to 
him  and  say,  pulling  a  long  face,  '  Look  here,  sir  ;  I  want  to 
read  up  for  my  next  examination.  Devilish  clever  fellow 
at  my  own  college — studious,  steady,  economical — excellent 
testimonials — all  that  sort  of  thing.  Sure  to  come  out  a 
first  in  Greats  next  time.  I  propose  to  read  with  him  at 
some  quiet  place  in  the  south  of  France — say  Mentone,' 
suppressing  the  little  details  about  Monte  Carlo,  you  under- 
stand ;  ♦  he'll  go  for  a  tenner  and  his  own  expenses.' 
What's  the  result  ?  The  governor's  delighted.  Fishes  out 
his  purse — stumps  up  liberally.  Claps  me  on  the  back  and 
says,  'Charlie,  my  boy,  I'm  gratified  to  see  you're  turning 
over  a  new  leaf  at  last,  and  mean  to  read  hard,  and  get 
through  with  credit.'  And  that's  the  real  use,  you  see,  of 
a  vacation  tutor." 


i7 


iS 


THE  SCALLYWAG. 


Ill 


Paul  listened  somewhat  aghast  to  this  candid  explana- 
tion of  his  own  true  function  in  the  modern  commonwealth; 
then  he  answered  slowly  : 

"  It's  rather  hard  lines  on  the  governor,  I  fancy.  But  I 
suppose  I  can't  interfere  with  that.  Your  arrangements 
with  your  father  are  your  own  business,  of  course.  As  to 
myself,  though,  I  always  feel  a  little  uneasy.  It  may  be  all 
right,  but  I'm  not  accustomed  to  such  a  magnificent  scale 
of  expenditure,  and  I  don't  want  to  put  either  you  or  him 
to  any  unnecessary  expense  in  the  matter  of  my  living." 

Thistleton  threw  back  his  head  once  more  on  the  easy 
chair  and  mused  aloud. 

**  What  a  conscience  !  What  a  conscience  !  I  believe 
you  wouldn't  spend  an  extra  sixpence  you  could  possibly 
save  if  your  life  depended  upon  it." 

**  You  forget,"  Paul  cried,  "that  I  have  special  claims 
upon  me." 

The  peculiar  stress  he  laid  upon  that  emphatic  word 
"  claims,"  might  have  struck  anybody  less  easy  going  th.tn 
Charlie  Thistleton,  but  the  Mond  young  man  let  it  escape 
his  attention. 

"Oh,  I  know  what  you  mean,"  he  retorted  carelessly. 
"  I've  heard  that  sort  of  thing  from  lots  of  other  fellows 
before.  Slender  means — the  governor  poor — heavy  expen- 
ses of  college  life — home  demands — a  mother  and  sisters." 

"  I  wish  to  Heaven  it  was  only  that,"  Paul  ejaculated 
fervently.  "A  mother  and  sisters  I  could  easily  put  up 
with.  But  the  claims  upon  me  are  far  more  serious.  It's 
a  duty  I  owe  to  Somebody  Else  not  to  spend  a  single 
penny  I  can  help,  unnecessarily." 

"  By  Jove  !"  the  blond  young  man  exclaimed,  waking 
up.     "  Not  engaged  t    Or  married  ?  " 

"  Engaged  !  Married  !  No,  no.  Is  it  likely  ?  "  Paul 
cried,  somewhat  bitterly. 


ROOM  FOR    THE  NERO. 


>9 


"  The  golden  haired  Pennsylvanian's  a  jolly  good  invest- 
ment, I  should  say,"  'I'histleton  went  on  meditatively. 
*•  Rolling  in  coin.  A  mint  of  money.  She'll  be  really 
annoyed,  too,  if  you  don't  come  to  her  picnic,  and,  what's 
more,  ride  a  donkey." 

"  Is  she  rich  ? "  Paul  asked,  with  a  sudden  and  unex- 
pected interest,  as  if  a  thought  had  instantly  darted  across 
his  brain. 

*'  Rich  !  Like  Croesus,  so  Armitage  tells  me.  Rich  as 
Pactolus.  Rich  as  wedding  cake.  Rich  beyond  the 
wildest  dreams  of  avarice." 

Paul  moved  from  his  place  at  the  corner  of  the  mantel- 
piece, fiery  red  in  the  face  now,  and  strolled  as  carelessly 
as  he  could  across  the  room  to  the  window.  Then  he 
opened  his  purse,  counted  the  money  furtively,  and  made  a 
short  mental  calculation,  unobserved.  At  the  end  of  it  he 
gave  a  very  deep  sigh,  and  answered  aloud  with  a  wrench  : 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  ought  to  go.  It's  a  precious  hard 
pull ;  for  I  hate  this  sort  of  thing  ;  but  then,  I  have  claims 
— very  special  claims  npon  me." 

"Still,  you'll  go  anyhow?"  Thistleton  asked  once  more. 

*'  Yes,  I'll  go,"  Paul  answered,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
makes  up  his  mind  to  have  a  tooth  drawn. 

*'  And  you'll  ride  a  donkey  ?  " 

**  I  suppose  I  must,  if  the  golden-haired  Pennsylvanian 
absolutely  insists  upon  it.  Anything  on  earth  where  duty 
calls  one." 

And  he  sank,  wearied,  into  the  chair  by  the  window. 


m 


#• 


r///i    SCALLYiyAJ. 


CHAPTER  III. 


AL    FRESCO. 


i 


Saturday  dawned  as  lovely  a  morning  as  the  founders 
of  the  feast  could  possibly  have  wished  it.  It  was  a  day  to 
order.  Not  a  touch  of  mistral  embittered  the  air.  The 
sea  shone  liquid  blue,  with  scarcely  a  ripple  dimpling  its 
surface  ;  the  great  gray  peaks  loomed  clear  and  distinct  in 
hard  outline  against  a  solid  blue  firmament.  It  is  only  on 
the  Riviera  that  you  get  that  perfect  definiteness  and  con- 
trast of  color.  Everything  looked  sharp  as  in  an  early 
Italian  picture,  with  an  early  Italian  sky  of  uniform  hue  to 
throw  up  and  intensify  the  infinite  jags  and  tatters  of  the 
mountain  profile. 

At  ten  sharp  the  first  arrivals  began  to  greet  one  another 
with  shouts  of  derision  on  the  road  by  the  station.  This- 
tleton  and  Gascoyne  were  among  the  earliest  on  the  scene. 
Punctuality,  the  blond  young  man  remarked,  was  one  of 
his  companion's  most  hopeless  fallings.  As  they  trotted 
up  upon  their  mettlesome  steeds — Paul's  more  mettle- 
some, in  fact,  than  was  either  seemly  or  agreeable — they 
found  Armitage  with  four  ladies  in  tow  drawn  up  in  a 
hollow  square  to  receive  them.  Boys  with  the  provisions 
stood  expectant  at  the  side,  a:  J  Paul  noticed  with  a  dis- 
tinct tinge  of  awe  that  from  one  of  the  baskets  several 
necks  of  bottles  protruded,  wired  and  tied,  and  covered 
with  gold  or  silver  tissue.  Then  the  picnic  would  actually 
run  to  champagne  !  What  unbridled  luxury  !  The  golden- 
haired  Pennsylvanian  must,  indeed,  as  Thistleton  had 
declared,  be  rich  as  Pactolus ! 

A  stern  sense  of  duty  induced  Paul  to  look  around  the 
group  for  that  interesting  personage.     Unaccustomed  to 


AL  FRESCO. 


21 


society  as  he  was,  and  in  the  awkward  position  of  being 
introduced  from  the  back  of  a  restive  donkey,  he  was  at 
first  aware  merely  of  a  fiery  heat  in  his  own  red  face  and  a 
confused  blurr  of  four  perfectly  unabashed  and  smiling 
ladies.  Four  names  fell  simultaneously  on  his  unheeding 
ear,  of  the  sound  of  which  he  caught  absolutely  nothing 
but  the  vague  sense  that  one  was  Mme.  Somebody,  and 
that  two  of  the  rest  were  Miss  Whatsername  and  her 
mamma.  A  clear  sharp  voice  first  roused  him  to  something 
like  definite  consciousness.  "  Mr.  Gascoyne's  my  guest, 
Nea,"  it  said,  in  a  full  and  rich  American  accent,  which 
Paul  had  hardly  ever  before  heard,  "  and  Mr.  Thistleton's 
yours.  Mr.  Gascoyne,  you've  jest  got  to  come  and  r.de  up 
right  alongside  of  me.  And  I'll  trouble  you  to  look  after 
the  basket  with  the  wine  in  it." 

So  this  was  the  golden-haired  Pennsylvanian  !  Paul 
glanced  at  her  shyly,  as  one  who  meets  his  fate,  and  answered 
with  what  courage  he  could  summon  up,  **  I'll  do  my  best 
to  take  care  of  it,  but  I  hope  I'm  not  responsible  for  break- 
ages.'* 

The  lady  in  the  deerstalker  hat  beyond — not  the  Penn- 
sylvanian— turned  to  him  with  a  quietly  reassuring  smile. 
"What  a  glorious  day  we've  got  for  our  picnic  !  "  she  said, 
flooding  him  with  the  light  of  two  dark  hazel  eyes ;  "  and 
what  splendid  fun  it'll  be  going  all  that  way  up  on  donkeys, 
won't  it  ? " 

For  those  hazel  eyes  and  that  sunny  smile  Paul  would 
have  forsworn  himself  before  any  court  of  justice  in  all 
England  with  infinite  pleasure.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he 
disliked  donkey-riding — he,  who  could  clear  a  fence  with 
any  man  in  Oxford — but  he  answered  sinfully  (and  I  hope 
the  recording  angel  omitted  to  notice  the  transgression), 
*'  Nothing  could  be  more  delightful  ;  and  with  such  lovely 
views,  too  !     The  lookout  from  the  summit  must  be  some- 


32 


THE  SCALLYWAG. 


1/1 1 


thing  too  charming  for  anything."  After  which  unwonted 
outburst  of  society  talk,  lost  in  admiration  of  his  own  bril- 
liancy, he  relapsed  once  more  into  attentive  silence. 

Nea  Blair  had  never  indeed  looked  more  beautiful.  The 
tailormade  dress  and  the  unstudied  hat  suited  her  simple 
girlish  beauty  to  a  "  T."  Paul  thought  with  a  sigh  how 
happy  he  would  have  been  had  the  call  of  duty  led  him 
thither,  instead  of  toward  the  service  of  the  golden-haired 
Pennsylvanian. 

One  after  another  the  remaining  guests  straggled  up 
piecemeal ;  and  when  all  were  gathered  together — a 
quarter  of  an  hour  behind  time,  of  course^for  they  were 
mostly  ladies — the  little  cavalcade  got  itself  under  weigh, 
and  began  to  mount  the  long  steep  stairs  that  lead  from 
the  Borrigo  valley  to  the  scarped  hog's  back  which 
separates  the  Val  des  Chataigners  from  the  Val  des  Prime- 
veres.  To  Paul,  in  spite  of  the  eccentricities  of  his  mount, 
that  first  expedition  into  those  glorious  mountains  was  one 
of  almost  unmixed  delight.  As  they  threaded  their  way  in 
long  .single  file  across  the  wooded  col  that  divided  the 
ravines,  he  looked  down  with  surprise  and  pleasure  into 
the  gracious  deep  gorges  on  either  side,  each  traversed  by 
the  silver  thread  of  torrent,  and  reflected  to  himself  with  a 
sigh  of  pleasure  that  he  had  never  known  the  world  was  so 
beautiful. 

'*  Oh,  my  !  aint  it  jest  lovely  ?  "  Miss  Boyton  called  out 
to  him  from  behind,  for  he  was  sandwiched  in  between  her 
and  Nea  Blair,^*  and  aint  they  jest  elegant,  the  lemon  trees 
in  the  valley  there  !  " 

"Which  are  the  lemons?"  Paul  asked,  half  di^bious, 
for  the  ravine  was  filled  with  trees  and  shrubs  whose  very 
names  he  knew  not. 

"  Why,  the  awfully  green  trees  on  the  terraces  down  be- 
low/' Isabel  Boyton  answered,  a  little  offhandedly. 


il 


li  ■ 


AL  FRESCO. 


•3 


"  And  the  silvery  gray?"  Paul  inquired  with  some  hesi- 
tation.    "  Are  they  olives,  I  wonder?  " 

'•  Of  course  they're  olives,"  the  American  answered,  with 
some  little  asperity.  "  I  guess  you've  never  been  along 
tljis  way  before,  Mr.  Gascoyne,  have  you  ?  " 

*'  It's  the  first  time  in  my  life  I've  ever  been  out  of  Eng- 
land,"  Paul  answered  humbly;  "and  everything  is  so 
strange,  I  find  I've  a  great  deal  to  learn  all  at  once — to 
learn  and  to  remember." 

"  But  the  olives  are  lovely,  aren't  they  ? "  Nea  Blair 
remarked,  turning  round  upon  "him  with  that  sunny  smile 
of  hers  for  a  moment.  "  Lovelier  even  than  your  own 
willows  round  about  Iffley,  I  think — if  anything  on  earth 
can  be  lovelier  than  dear  old  Oxford." 

**  Then  you  know  Oxford  !  "  Paul  exclaimed,  brightening 
up  at  once. 

"  Oh,  yes ;  I  had  a  brother  a  few  years  ago  at  Oriel. 
And  I  know  Mrs.  Douglas,  the  wife  of  the  professor." 

•'  I  wish  I'd  had  a  brother  at  Oxford  Coiiege,"  Miss  Boyton 
put  in  parenthetically,  urging  on  her  donkey,  "  I'd  have 
made  him  take  me  along  and  introduce  me  to  all  his 
aristocratic  acquaintances.  I  mean  some  day  to  marry  one 
of  your  English  noblemen.  I've  made  up  my  mind  to 
catch  an  earl,  and  be  Lady  Isabel  Something." 

"  But  you  couldn't  be  Lady  Isabel  by  marrying  an  earl," 
Paul  answered,  smiling  a  very  curious  smile.  "  In  that 
case,  of  course,  you'd  be  a  countess." 

"Well,  a  duke  then,"  Miss  Boyton  answered,  imperturb- 
ably,  "  or  a  marquis,  or  a  viscount,  or  whatever  other  sort 
of  nobleman  was  necessary  to  make  me  into  Lady  Isabel." 

Paul  smiled  again.  "  But  none  of  them,"  he  said, 
"  could  make  you  Lady  Isabel.  You'd  be  Lady  Somebody, 
you  know — Lady  Jones,  for  example,  or  Lady  Smith,  or 
Lady  Cholmondeley." 


m 


•4 


77/^    SCAI.l.YirAG. 


'  r 


A 


I  i 


"Or  I.ady  Gascoyne  ;  that  sounds  just  lovely,"  Miss 
Boyton  interposed  with  an  air  of  perfect  simplicity. 

Paul  started  at  the  sound,  and  scanned  her  close.  His 
ears  tingled.  Was  she  really  as  innocent  and  harmless  as 
she  looked,  or  had  it  somehow  come  round  to  her — but  oh, 
no ;  impossible.  "  Yes,"  he  went  on  quietly,  without 
noticing  the  interruption  ;  "  but  you  must  be  born  a  duke's, 
or  an  earl's,  or  a  marquis's  daughter  to  be  called  Lady 
Isabel." 

Miss  Boyton's  countenance  fell  not  a  little. 

"  Is  that  so?"  she  exclaimed  plaintively.  "You  don't 
tell,  really  !  Jhen  I  can't  be  Lady  Isabel  no  matter  who 
I  married  ? " 

"No  matter  whom  you  married,"  Paul  answered,  with  the 
stern  precision  of  Lindley  Murray  and  a  British  Peerage  in 
equal  proportions. 

"Well,  now,  if  that  aint  jest  too  bad,"  Isabel  Boyton 
exclaimed  with  deep  mock  pathos.  "  Say,  Nea,  Mr.  Gas- 
coyne's  crushed  the  dream  of  my  life.  I  don't  care  a  cent 
to  be  Lady  Somebody  if  I  can't  be  Lady  Isabel.  And  I 
can't  be  Lady  Isabel  whoever  I  marry.  I  call  it  jest 
heartrending." 

"  Won't  an  honorable  or  a  courtesy  lord  do  as  well  ?  " 
Nea  asked,  laughing. 

"  Oh,  my,  no,"  Isabel  answered  promptly  ;  though  what 
manner  of  wild  beast  a  courtesy  lord  might  be  she  hadn't 
the  faintest  conception.  "I'd  most  as  soon  go  back  to 
Philadelphia  again,  returned  empty,  and  marry  a  stock- 
broker. I've  made. up  my  mind  to  be  Lady  Isabel  or 
nothing." 

"  Then  I'm  afraid,"  Paul  said,  with  a  faint  smile,  "I  can 
do  nothing  for  you." 

"But  if  it  were  only  to  make  her  plain  'My  Lady,' 
now  !  "  Nea  put  in  laughingly. 


AL  FRESCO. 


Paul  laughed  in  return — an  uneasy  laugh.  They  had  just 
reached  one  of  the  sudden  steep  ascents  where  the  sure- 
footed little  donkeys,  straining  every  nerve  and  muscle  in 
their  stout,  small  legs,  climb  up  the  bare  rocks  like  moun- 
tain goats,  with  their  human  burdens  jerking  in  the  saddles 
like  so  many  meal-bags.  *•  How  the  little  beasts  grimp  !  " 
Paul  cried,  half  surprised  ;  "  such  plucky  little  creatures, 
and  so  strong  for  their  size  !     They're  really  wonderful  !  " 

**  That's  a  good  word — '  grimp,'  "  Nea  answered  from  in 
front/    "  Is  it  pucker  English,  I  wonder  ?  " 

"  I  do  admire  it,"  Isabel  Boyton  replied  from  behind. 
"  Here,  get  up,  donkey.  My  Arab  steed  don't  carry  me 
regularly." 

Just  at  that  moment  a  lojid  cry  of  ^*  Ach,  Himmel!*' 
resounded  from  ithe  forefront  of  the  cavalcade,  where 
Mme.  Ceriolo  led  the  way — Mme.  Ceriolo,  even  in  the 
most  trying  circumstances,  never  forgot  to  keep  up  her 
French  and  German — followed  next  instant  by  a  sharp 
''  MoH  Dieu*!  quelle  aff reuse  petite  bete ! ''  and  the  shamb- 
ling, scrambling  noise  of  a  fallen  donkey  endeavoring  to 
recover  itself. 

Paul  and  Armitage  were  at  her  side  in  a  moment,  to  pick 
up  Mme.  Ceriolo  and  her  unhappy  mount.  Madame  made 
the  most  noise,  but  Blanchette,  the  donkey,  had  received 
bj  far  the  most  injury.  The  poor  little  beast's  knees  were 
cut  atjd  bleeding,  ^^  /e  Tai  couronnde  la  m^chante"  madame 
said  carelessly,  and  Paul  saw  at  a  glance  it  would  be  quite 
unable  to  continue  the  journey. 

It's  an  ill  wind,  however,  that  blows  nobody  good.  Paul 
seized  the  opportunity  to  effect  a  double  stroke  of  business 
—to  do  a  politeness  to  Mme.  Ceriolo  and  to  get  rid  of  the 
onus  of  his  own  donkey.  Almost  before  she  could  have  a 
I  voice  in  the  matter,  or  any  other  man  of  the  party  equally 
gallant  or  equally  uncomfortable  could  anticipate  bim,  he 


36 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


►  >^ 


i  I 


I1 


had  shifted  the  side  saddle  from  poor,  patient,  shivering, 
broken  kneed  Blanchette,  and  transferred  it  forthwith  to 
the  bigger  beast  he  himself  had  been  riding.  "  Merely  mon- 
sieur^ merci ;  mille  remerciments"  madame  cried,  all 
smiles,  as  soon  as  she  had  recovered  her  equanimity  and 
h»r  company  manners.  "And  you,  you  little  brute,"  turn- 
ing to  poor  Blanchette  and  shaking  her  wee  gloved  fist 
angrily  in  its  face,  "you  deserve  to  be  whipped,  to  be 
soundly  whipped,  for  your  nasty  temper." 

"  The  poor  creature  couldn't  help  it,"  Paul  murmured 
quietly,  tightening  the  girths  ;  "  the  road's  very  steep  and 
very  slippery,  you  can  see.  I  don't  wonder  they  sometimes 
come  an  awful  cropper  !  " 

"  By  Jove ! "  Armitage  said,  watching  him  as  he 
fastened  the  buckles  and  bands,  "  what  a  dab  you  are  at 
donkeys,  really,  Gascoyne  !  You  do  it  like  a  groom  ; 
you've  missed  your  vocation." 

Paul  colored  up  to  the  roots  of  his  hair.  "I've  been 
used  to  horses,"  he  answered  quietly.  Then  he  turned  back 
without  another  word  to  take  his  place  on  foot  beside  Nea 
Blair  and  Isabel.  "  Here,  boy,"  he  called  out  to  one  of  the 
drivers  quickly,  "hand  me  that  basket,  I'll  take  it  on  ;  and 
go  down  to  Mentone  with  this  poor  little  beast.  She'll 
need  looking  after." 

He  spoke  in  French  fluently,  and  Nea  turned  in  surprise. 

"  Why,  you  said  you  had  never  been  abroad  before  ? " 
she  exclaimed,  taken  aback.  "  And  now  you  talk  like  a 
regular  boulevardier .  Were  you  born  Parisian,  or  did  you 
acquire  it  by  a  miracle  ? " 

"  I've  had  great  opportunities  of  talking  French  at 
home,"  Paul  answered,  a  little  embarrassed.  "We — a — 
we  always  had  a  Frenchwoman  in  the  family  when  I  was 
a  child!" 

"  A  governess  ? "    Nea  suggested. 


> 


AT  SANT'  AGMESE. 


a; 


"  Well,  no.     Not  exactly  a  governess." 

"  A  bonne,  then  ? " 

"  No,  not  quite  a  bonne,  either,"  Paul  replied  truthfully. 
Then,  a  happy  thought  seizing  him  on  the  moment,  he  con- 
tinued, with  truth,  "  She  was  a  lady's  maid." 

After  that  he  relapsed  into  silence  for  a  while,  feeling 
painfully  conscious  in  his  own  mind  that  his  subterfuge  was 
a  snobbish  one.  For  though  he  only  meant,  himself,  to 
evade  a  difficulty,  he  saw  at  once  that  Nea  Blair  would 
understand  him  to  mean  a  lady's  maid  of  his  mother's. 
And  as  to  the  possibility  of  his  mother  having  ever  pos- 
essed  that  ornamental  adjunct — why,  th6  bare  idea  of  it 
was  simply  ridiculous. 

CHAPTER  IV. 


AT    SANT     AGNESE. 

Once  restored  to  the  free  use  of  his  own  two  legs,  Paul 
(iascoyne  was  at  once  himself  again.  As  the  one  member 
of  the  party,  except  the  donkey  boys,  who  went  afoot,  he 
was  here,  there,  and  everywhere,  in  waiting  upon  every- 
body. What  prodigies  of  valor  did  he  not  perform  in  haul- 
ing fat  old  Mrs.  Newton's  donkey  up  the  steepest  bits,  .or  in 
slipping  down  round  the  sharpest  corners  to  help  Nea  Blair 
safely  round  some  difficult  gully  !  What  useful  services 
did  he  not  lavish  on  the  golden-haired  Penn.sylvanian  and 
her  shriveled  mamma,  walking  by  their  sides  where  the 
ledjres  were  narrowest  and  calming  their  fears  where  the 
rocks  toward  the  slope  were  loosest  and  most  landslippy  ! 
How  he  darted  from  the  rear  up  short  cuts  of  the  zigzags, 
and  appeared  in  front  again,  a  hundred  yards  ahead,  on 
some  isolated  bowlder,  to  encourage  and  direct  their  doubt- 
ful footsteps !     How  he  scrambled  over  inaccessible  faces 


a8 


THE  SCALLYWAG. 


M      . 


'\ 


of  cliff  to  fetch  some  fern  or  flower  for  Nea,  or  to  answer 
some  abstract  qiicKtion  as  to  the  ultimate  destination  of  the 
minor  side-paths  from  Isabel  Hoyton  !  lie  was  a  j^ood 
climber,  and  he  enjoyed  the  climb— ihouKJi  he  feared  for 
his  old  boots  and  his  carefully  conserved  trousers. 

The  road  was  long — Sant'  Ay;nese  stands  some  three 
thousand  feet  above  sea-level — but  at  every  turn  the 
views  grew  lovelier,  and  the  sense  of  elation  in  the  moun- 
tain air  more  distinct  and  delicious.  They  passed  from  the 
region  of  olives  into  the  zone  of  pine  woods,  and  then  again 
into  that  of  bare  white  rock,  scarcely  terraced  here  and 
there  by  Proveuipal  industry  to  support  a  few  stunted  vines 
and  undersized  chestnut  trees.  The  path  wound  slowly  up 
the  sides  of  a  st:)ny  ravine,  and  then  mounted  in  a  series  of 
sharp  elbows  the  sheer  peak  itself,  to  an  accompaniment  of 
cries  of  Franco-German  distress  from  Mme.  Ceriolo  and 
shrill  transatlantic  exclamations  of  horror  from  the  golden- 
haired  Pennsylvanian.  At  last  they  reached  the  goal  of 
their  pilgrimage — a  rocky  platform  high  up  the  last  peaks 
of  the  jagged  mountain,  with  a  great  Ligurian  village  just 
clinging  to  the  slopes,  and  almost  indistinguishable  from  the 
still  grayer  wall  of  bare  rock  that  rose  above  it  in  sharp 
tors  and  weather-worn  chinmeys  against  the  deep  blue 
heaven. 

"  What  a  glorious  view  !  "  Nea  Blair  exclaimed,  as  they 
looked  down  unexpectedly  on  the  northern  side  into  a  pro- 
found and  naked  basin  of  rock,  at  whose  bottom  the  Bor- 
rigo  torrent  roared  and  brawled  amid  its  scattered  bowlders. 
"And  what  magnificent  great  peaks  away  across  the  valley 
there  ! " 

"  I  guess  we'd  better  fix  up  lunch  on  that  flat  piece  by 
the  chapel,"  Isabel  Boyton  remarked  with  occidental 
practicality,  spying  out  forthwith  the  one  patch  of  tolerably 
level  ground  within  reach  of  the  village.    It  was  a  spur  of 


AT  SAJ^T'  ACXKSE. 


the  mountain,  covered  with  that  rare  object  In  the  Proven- 
«;al  Alps,  a  carpet  of  turf,  anil  projectiiijf  from  the  main 
raiijje  far  into  the  semicircle  of  the  deep  rock-basin. 

"We'll  fix  it  up  x'\^\\i  away,"  Mine.  Ceriolo  answered 
with  good-naturetl  niimicry.  Mme.  C'criololiad  the  natural 
talent  for  languages  which  seems  to  go  inseparably  with  the 
/-«'/«?  of  Continental  adventuress,  and  she  spoke  American 
almost  as  well  and  with  almost  as  good  an  accent  as  she 
spoke  her  other  alternative  tongues.  "  If  your  mamma  and 
Mrs.  NewtonMl  set  themselves  down  right  here,  and  make 
themselves  comfortable,  Mr.  (iascoyne  and  t  I  will  just 
unpack  the  baskets.  Come  along  here,  Nea,  we  want  you 
to  help  us.  Miss  Boyton,  yuu  get  the  plates  and  things 
rrady,  will  you  ?  " 

For  a  few  minutes  they  were  busy  arranging  everything. 
Armitage,  the  blond  young  man,  and  Paul  rendering  all 
due  assistance  ;  and  Paul  was  aware  in  an  indefinite  way 
tha^  Mme.  Ceriolo  was  somehow  anxious  to  keep  him  off 
as  much  as  possible  from  the  golden-haired  Pennsylvanian. 
lUit  as  this  gave  him  the  opportunity  of  conversing  more 
with  Nea,  and  as,  duty  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding,  he 
very  much  preferred  Nea  to  the  heiress  of  Pactolus,  he 
hy  no  means  resented  madame's  obvious  anxiety  in  this 
respect.  On  the  contrary,  he  salved  his  conscience  with 
the  reflection  that  it  was  madame  rather  than  inclination 
that  kept  him  away  from  the  lady  of  the  golden  hair  and 
prospects. 

Such  a  picnic  as  that  December  morning's  Paul  had 
never  before  borne  a  part  in.  There  were  dishes  from 
Knnipeimayer's,  cunningly  compounded  of  aspic  and  olives, 
whose  very  names  he  had  not  so  much  as  heard,  but 
whereof  the  rest  of  the  party,  more  instructed  in  cookery, 
talked  quite  glibly.  There  were  curious  salads,  and  gar- 
nishings  of  crayfish   and  candied   fruits,  and   pastry  and 


30 


TllK   SCAU.YW'AC. 


w 


Is 


if        ! 


:        I, 
I 


nouufat  of  artiMic  manufacture.  There  was  much  cham- 
pajjuc,  aiul  vintage  clarets,  ami  Asti  mousseux  for  those 
who  liked  it  sweet,  aiui  green  chartreuse  poured  from  a 
Cantagalli  bottle.  I'or  though  the  picnic  was  nominally  a 
joint  affair  of  Nea'H  and  the  American's,  it  was  Isabel 
iioyton  who  contributed  the  lion's  shore  of  the  material 
provision,  which  she  insisted  upon  doing  with  true  Western 
magnificence.  The  lunch  was  so  good,  indeed,  that  even 
the  beauties  of  nature  went  unnoticed  by  comparison. 
They  had  hardly  time  to  look  at  the  glimpse  of  calm  blue 
sea  disclosed  between  the  ridges  of  serrated  peaks,  the 
green  basking  valleys  that  smiled  a  couple  of  thousand 
feet  below,  with  their  orange  and  lemon  groves,  or  the 
flood  of  sunshine  that  poured  in  full  force  upon  the 
moldering  battlements  of  the  grim  and  wasted  Alps  in 
front  of  them. 

After  lunch,  however,  Paul  somehow  found  himself 
seated  on  the  slope  of  the  hill  with  Nea.  They  had  discussed 
many  things — Mentone,  and  the  view,  and  the  flowers,  and 
the  village — and  Nea  had  just  toUl  him  the  strange  old  legend 
q[  the  castle  that  clings  to  the  topmost  peak — how  it  was 
founded  by  a  Saracen  who  levied  tax  and  toll  on  all  the  Chris- 
tain  folk  of  the  country  round,  and  finally  became  con- 
verted to  the  faith  of  Europe  by  the  beautiful  eyes  of  a 
peasant-girl  whose  charms  had«enslaved  him,  when  sud- 
denly she  came  back  plump  to  the  nineteenth  century  with 
the  point-blank  qiu;:uijn,  k*  Where  do  you  live  when  you're 
at  home,  Mr.  Gascoj  ne  ?  " 

"In  Surrey,"  Paul  answered  vaguely,  growing  uncomfor- 
tably hot. 

"  Surrey's  a  big  address,"  Nea  Blair  answered,  pulling  a 
tiny  rockrose  from  a  cranny  in  the  precipice.  **  Any  par- 
ticular part,  or  do  you  occupy  the  county  generally  ?  " 

Paul   laughed,   but    not    with   quite  a  gracious   laugh." 


jr  SAXr  AGXKSR. 


I> 


••  About  twcnty-fwc  miles  from  London,"  he  answered, 
with  evasive  va};iieness. 

"  I've  lots  of  friends  in  Surrey,"  Nea  went  on  innocently, 
unconscious  of  the  mental  pan^s  she  was  carelessly  innict* 
\\\g  on  him.     '*  Do  you  know  Iliilborou^^h  ?  " 

**  Why,  that's  just  where  I  live,"  Paul  answered,  with  a 
suppressed  start. 

"Dear  me;  how  funny  I  haven't  met  you!"  Nea  ex- 
claimed in  surprise.  **  I'm  always  down  at  Ilillborough, 
slopping  with  the  Ilamiltons." 

"Indeed,"  Paul  responded  in  a  very  dry  voice. 

•'  Vou  ftiNst  know  the  Ilamiltons,"  Nea  persisted,  all 
innocence.  "Sir  Arthur  Hamilton,  of  the  Grange,  at 
llillborough.  He  used  to  be  Governor  of  Madras,  you 
know,  or  somewhere." 

'•  I  know  them  by  name,  of  course,"  Paul  admitted 
uneasily. 

"But  not  personally  ?" 

*'  No,  not  personally.  VVc — a — we  move  in  different 
circles." 

•'  Then  you  must  know  the  Boyd  Galloways  ?"  Nea  went 
on  interrogatively. 

"Only  by  sight.  I  haven't  any  large  acquaintance  at 
Hiliborough." 

"The  Jacksons  ?" 

*'  Colonel  Jackson  I  sometimes  see,  it's  true  ;  but  I  don't 
know  him.     They're  not  the  kind  of  set  I  mix  with." 

"  Well,  of  course  you  know  the  rector,"  Nea  exclaimed, 
nailing  him.  "The  dear  old  Archdeacon— he's  so  nice 
witii  everybody." 

**  He  comes  to  us  occasionally,"  Paul  answered  with 
some  reluctance.  Then,  after  a  pause,  he  added,  lest  he 
should  seem  to  be  claiming  too  great  an  honor.  "  But 
much  more  often  he  sends  the  curate." 


32 


THE  SCALLYV  AG. 


h 


ii 


I;.' 


Even  yet  Nea  failed  to  take  in  the  situation,  not  because 
she  wa*^  slow  of  understanding,  but  because  it  was  quite  a 
novel  one  to  her.  **  Perhaps  you  live  alone  ?  "  she  suggested 
ill  explanation. 

Paul  could  put  off  the  damning  truth  no  longer. 

"On  the  contrary,"  he  said,  "my  father  and  mother  live 
and  have  always  lived  entirely  at  Killborough.  But  they're 
not  in  position  to  see  much  cf  the  local  society — in  fact 
they're  not  in  society  in  any  way.  We're  quite  poor  p"!o- 
plA — what  your  friend,  Mr.  Armitage,  to  use  a  favorite  word 
of  his,  would  call  scallywags." 

There  was  au  awkward  pause.  Then  Nea  said  again, 
with  a  becoming  blush  : 

"Forgive  my  pressing  you.  It — it  never  occurred  to 
me."  Next  moment  feminine  tact  induced  her  to  change 
the  subject,  not  too  abruptly.  "  I  visit  a  good  deal  at 
Hillborough  myself,  and  I  thought  we'd  be  sure  to  have 
acquaintances  in  common.  But  I  live  in  Cornwall.  Have 
you  ever  been  in  Cornwall,  Mr.  Gascoyne  ?  In  summer 
it's  almost  as  beautiful  as  this  ;  it  is,  really." 

"  No,  I've  never  been  there,"  Paul  answered,  grateful  to 
her  for  tlie  clever  diversion.  "  But  I  shall  hope  to  go,"  he 
added  quite  seriously. 

"  Oh,  you  must  when  I  get  back  again  there  next 
summer,"  Nea  cried  most  warmly.  "  It'j  so  awfully 
lovely.  As  soon  as  I'm  well  I  shall  long  to  ^et  hGr?e 
again." 

"You  are  not  here  for  your  health?"  Paul  inquired, 
catching  her  up. 

"  For  my  health  ?  Yes.  But  it  isn't  serious.  Not  my 
lungs,  you  know,"  for  Paul  had  laid  his  hand  instinctively 
on  his  chest.  "  Only  to  recover  from  the  effects  of  an 
upset  in  a  boat  last  summer.  L've  no  mother,  and  papa 
couldn't  bring  me  abroad  himself  because  of  leaving  his 


I    11 


n 


AT  SAJV?"   AG.VESE. 


Z^ 


parish  ;  so  he  got  Mme.  Ceriolo  to  take  care  of  me.  She's 
accustomed  to  traveling,  Mme.  Ceriolo." 

"  Where  on  earth  did  he  pick  her  up?"  Paul  inquired 
'.\ith  some  curiosity,  for,  inexperienced  in  the  ways  of  the 
world  as  he  was,  Mme,  Ceriolo's  personality  had  already 
struck  him  as  a  sufficiently  singular  one  for  her  present 
occupation. 

"  01),  he  heard  of  her  from  a  governess'  agency,"  Nea 
answered  with  much  confidence.  "  She  had  excellent  testi- 
monials from  people  of  title.  She's  well  connected.  And 
siie's  a  good  little  thing  enough  when  you  really  get  to 
know  her." 

"  I  daresay,"  Paul  answered  in  that  dubious  tone  which 
means,  "I  dot 't  think  so,  but  I  wouldn't  be  rude  enough 
to  contradict  you." 

What  Nea  said  next  he  didn't  catch,  for  his  ear  was  that 
moment  distracted  by  a  side  conversation  carried  on  at 
some  little  distance  between  Armitage  and  old  Mrs.  New- 
ion.  They  were  talking  low,  but,  in  spite  of  their  low 
tones.,  he  overheard  more  than  once  the  vague  murmur  of 
his  own  name  :  and  that  man  were  surely  more  than  mor- 
tal whon".  the  sound  of  his  own  name  overheard  in  his 
neighbors'  talk  would  not  draw  away  even  from  a  pretty 
girl's  unimportant  causerie.  He  listened  without  pretend- 
ing to  hear,  and  prt  in  *'  yes  "  and  "  no"  to  Nea's  remarks 
a  tort  et  h  travers.  "  Only  one  family  of  Gascoynes  with  a 
'  y '  and  without  a  *  g,' "  Mrs.  Newton  was  observing ; 
"  and  that's  the  baronet's.  Old  Sir  Emery  Gascoyne,  the 
last  of  the  lot,  was  very  rich,  and  lived  down  in  Pembroke- 
shire— in  Little  England  beyond  Wales,  as  they  call  it 
locally.  But  this  young  man  can't  be  one  of  tho^''  Gas- 
coynes, because "  and  there  her  voice  sank  still  lower. 

Paul  strained  his  ears,  but  could  hear  no  more.  "  So  v  ry 
odd,  wasn't  it  ?  "  Nea  was  saying  appealingly. 


tA 


THE  SCALLYWAG. 


if    i 


"  Extremely  odd,"  Paul  absented  like  a  man,  though  to 
what  particular  proposition  he  was  thus  boldly  committ'ng 
himself  he  really  hadn't  the  faintest  idea  ;  but,  as*  Miss 
Blair  said  so,  he  had  very  little  doubt  it  must  have  been 
positively  ludicrous. 

"  I  stopped  there  once,  at  Gascoyne  Manor,"  Armitage 
was  saying  once  more,  when  next  a  scrap  of  the  conversa- 
tion was  wafted  toward  him  ;  "  it  was  in  c!d  Sir  Emery's 
time,  you  know,  before  the  present  man  came  into  posses- 
sion. The  present  man's  not  a  baronet,  I  fancy  ;  ah,  no, 
exactly  so  ;  that's  just  as  I  thought ;  but  he's  very  rich, 
and  will  be  Lord  Lieutenant  of  the  county  some  dj;y,  I'm 
told.  A  splendid  place,  and  awfully  well  ke/  \  No 
sort  of  connectiop,  you  may  be  pretty  sure,  wiih  young 
Thistleton's  tutor." 

Paul':,  ears  were  tingling  hot  by  this  time,  and  it  was 
with  difficulty  that  he  so  far  roused  himself  as  to  under- 
stand when  Nea  said,  "  Shill  vve  start  al  once,  then  ? "  that 
she  had  just  been  pr  posing  a  climb  to  the  castle  ruins,  and 
that  he  had  unconsciously  promised  to  accompany  her  on 
her  scramble.  "  Certainly,"  he  said,  coming  back  with  a 
start,  and  they  rose  at  once,  Mme.  Ceriolo  rising  too  to 
fulfill  to  the  letter  her  appropriate  functions  as  contracted 
and  paid  for.  "  Come,"  she  said,  "  Mr.  Thistleton,"  wit^ 
her  most  girlish  smile — and  she  looked  seventeen  when  sh': 
meant  to  captivate — "  come  and  give  me  a  hand  over  these 
dreadful  rocks.  Mon  Dieu !  quels  rockers !  I  shall 
stumble  and  fall,  I  know,  if  I  haven't  one  of  the  lords  of 
creation  to  lean  upon."  ' 

As  they  passed  through  the  dark  and  vaulted  alleys  of 
the  quaint  old  town — mere  filthy  mole-tracks,  built  round 
on  either  side,  and  strengthened  with  vaults  thrown  acre  .. 
from  house  to  house  for  greater  stability  in  times  of  eariu- 
quake — Nea  glanced  up  quickly  at  the  gloomy  old  roofs, 


ff:, 
>'  i 


I        IR 


AT  SAiWT'   AGNESE. 


35 


and  exclaimed  with  a  gay  ease,  **  Oh,  isn't  it  picturesque  ! 
I  should  just  love  to  sketch  it." 

'•  Very  picturesque,"  Taul  answered,  looking  down  at  the 
noisome  small  gutters  underfoot,  where  barefooted 
children  scrambled  and  crawled  among  the  accumulated 
dirt  of  five-and-twenty  centuries,  "but  very  terrible,  too, 
when  you  come  to  think  that  men  and  women  live  all  their 
life  in  it." 

"  Oh,  they're  accustomed  to  it,"  Nea  replied  lightly,  with 
the  easy-going  optimism  of  youth  and  of  the  comfortable 
classes.  "  They've  never  known  anything  better,  1  suppose, 
and  they  don't  feel  the  want  of  it." 

•*  Miss  Blair,"  Paul  said,  turning  round  and  facing  her 
suddenly  and  quite  unexpectedly,  "  that  sentiment's 
unworthy  of  you.  You're  only  saying,  of  course,  what 
everybody  else  says  ;  but  we  expect  something  better  from 
you  than  from  everybody.  Look  at  the  misery  and  dirt  in 
vvhich  these  people  live,  and  if  contentedly,  then  so  much 
the  more  terrible.  Discontent  is  the  on'y  spur  to  improve- 
ment. If  they're  satisfied  to  live  as  they  do,  then  they're 
so  much  the  less  human,  and  so  much  the  more  like  the 
beasts  that  perish.  Look  how  here,  on  this  breezy,  open 
hilltop,  among  these  glot»v.ds  rocks,  their  houses  are  built 
without  sun  or  air,  turned  only  to  the  filthy,  festering  street, 
and  away  from  the  light,  and  the  sea,  and  the  mountains. 
They  don't  care  for  the  view,  you  say.  Their  views  about 
views  are,  no  doubt,  rudimentary.  But  isn't  it  just  that 
that's  the  saddest  thing  of  all — that  where  they  might  enjoy 
so  much  fresh  air,  and  sunshine,  and  health,  and  beauty, 
they're  content  with  such  gloom,  and  dirt,  and  misery,  and 
squalor  ?  You  talk. like  that  because  you  hardly  think  any 
class  but  your  own  is  wholly  human.  I  know  better.  I 
know  that,  up  and  down,  high  and  low,  gentle  or  simple, 
all  the  world  over,  there's  a  deal  of  human  nature  in  men 


3< 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


V 


and  women.  And  it  seems  to  me  a  terribly  painful  thing 
that  they  should  live  like  this — so  painful  as  to  spoil,  to 
my  mind,  the  very  sense  of  picturesqueness  in  all  this  pic- 
turesque dirt  and  wretchedness  !  " 

He  turned  round  upon  her  so  sharply,  and  his  words 
flowed  so  quick,  in  such  a  spontaneous  outburst  of  nat- 
ural eloquence  that  Nea  Blair  was  fairly  taken  by  sur- 
prise. 

"  You're  right,  I  know,"  she  answered  in  a  very  low 
voice.  "  I  spoke  unthinkingly.  I  was  only  saying,  as  you 
say,  what  everyone  else  says.  In  future,  Mr.  Gascoyne,  I 
shall  t  "member  to  think  of  it  and  speak  of  it  more  seri- 
ously.' 

Paul  L. ashed  in  return.  He  felt  he  had  allowed  his 
natural  indignation  to  carry  him  away  too  hastily  and 
unreservedly. 

Two  hours  later,  as  he  came  back  alone  from  the  Hotel 
des  Rives  d'Or,  whither  he  had  gone  to  see  his  hostess 
home,  he  reflected,  with  some  pangs  of  remorse  to  himself, 
that  he  had,  perhaps,  done  wrong  in  paying  so  much  atten- 
tion to  Miss  Blair  and  so  comparatively  little  to  the  Ameri- 
can heiress.  Gold,  gold  !  he  should  have  gone  for  gold. 
It  was  wrong  of  him,  no  doubt — extremely  wrong,  with 
those  heavy  claims  upon  him.  But,  then,  how  very  nice 
Miss  Blair  was,  and  how  thoroughly  he  detested  this  hateful 
worship  of  the  golden  calf  and  the  golden  image  !  If  only 
his  lot  had  been  framed  otherwise  !  Marry  for  money — 
the  hateful  idea  !  How  much  a  man  must  sacrifice  to  the 
sense  of  duty  ! 

On  the  table  of  the  salo7i  he  found  a  letter  awaiting  him 
with  the  Hillsborough  postmark.  The  handwriting  on 
the  envelope  was  boldly  commercial.  He  tore  it  open. 
It  was  brief  and  succinct.  And  this  was  what  he  read 
in  it :  '  ' 


GOSSIP. 


37 


My  pear  Paul: 

I  ought  to  have  written  to  you  before  you  left  Oxford  to  say  that 
now  you  are  goinp:  abroad  it  would  be  a  great  pity — in  case  you  get  thrown 
:  ito  good  society— to  spoil  the  ship  for  a  ha'porth  of  tar,  as  the  common 
saying  is.  The  time  is  now  coming  when  we  may  begin  to  expect  to 
pull  off  our  coup,  as  the  sporting  gentlemen  call  it.  Don't  go  singing 
small,  as  you're  too  much  inclined  to  do.  Let  them  know  who  you  are,  and 
take  your  proper  position.  At  the  same  time  don't  spend  too  much,  and 
don't  get  dragged  into  unnecessary  expenses.  But  keep  up  your  dignity. 
For  this  purpose  I  enclose  a  ten-pound  note,  for  which  kindly  sign  note- 
of  hand  herewith  as  usual.  The  noble  bart.  and  his  lady  are  well  and 
hearty,  and  send  their  respects. 

Your  obedient  servant, 

JUDAH  P.  Solomons. 

Paul  laid  down  the  letter  with  a  ?igh  of  relief.  It  was  a 
comfort,  at  any  rate,  to  know  he  had  not  done  wrong  in 
paying  five  francs  for  the  beast  which,  as  luck  would  have  it, 
he  had  never  ridden.  He  entered  it  without  one  qualm  of 
conscience  on  his  accounts.  "  Donkey  for  picnic,  4^.  2d" 
The  item  might  pass.  If  Mr.  Solomons  approved,  his  mind 
was  easy. 


CHAPTER  V. 


GOSSIP. 


"  I  THINK,  for  my  part,"  Nea  said  decisively,  enforcing 
her  remark  with  a  dig  of  her  parasol  into  the  gravel  walk, 
"  the  scallywag's  mucli  the  nicest  of  the  two.  But,  then, 
you  know  I  always  did  like  scallywags.  They've  got  so 
much  more  humanity  and  reality  about  them  than — than 
most  other  people." 

They  were  seated  once  more,  the  morning  after  the  picnic, 
on  the  Promenade  du  Midi,  very  stiff  from  their  ride,  and 
full  of  mutual  notes  of  last  night's  entertainment.     Mme. 


'  I 


r 


m 


38 


TZ/F.    SCA/LYWAG. 


Ceriolo  smiled  her  conventional  smile,  as  she  replied  ob- 
liquely. **  And  yet  the  other  one— _/>  ne  me  rappdUplus  son 
nom — oh,  yes.  Mr.  Thistleton,  he's  very  agreeable  too, 
and  probably,  I  should  say,  an  excellent /a^-//." 

•'  Oh,  he  aint  much,"  Isabel  Boyton  answered  with 
Yankee  directness.  **  He's  a  lot  too  like  a  piece  of  putty 
for  me.  Of  course,  he's  a  fine  big  boy,  and  pretty  nice  to 
look  at ;  but  there's  nothing  in  him.  I'm  down  on  mind,  I 
am,  and  the  scallywag's  got  three  times  as  much  of  that  as 
Mr.  Thistleton." 

"  He's  clever,  I  think,"  Nea  assented  with  a  nod. 

"Oh,^^«  needn't  talk,  Nea,"  the  American  put  in  with  a 
mock  injured  air.  "  I  call  it  real  mean  the  way  you 
walked  off  with  my  young  man,  that  I'd  invited  on  pur- 
pose for  my  own  amusement,  and  left  me  to  talk  half  the 
day  to  that  pappy,  sappy,  vappy  big  Englishman,  with  no 
more  conversation  in  his  six  feet  six  than  a  ship's  figure- 
head. It  was  jest  downright  ugly  of  her,  wasn't  it, 
mamma  ? " 

Mrs.  Boyton  was  a  dried-up  old  lady  of  the  mummified 
American  order — there  are  two  classes  of  American  old 
ladies  :  the  plentiful  and  the  very  skimpy — who  seldom  con- 
tributed much  to  the  interchange  of  thought,  save  when 
her  daughter  called  upon  her  to  confirm  her  own  opinion  ; 
and  she  murmured  now  dutifully,  "  If  you  asked  him  for 
yourself,  Izzy,  you'd  a  right  to  his  attentions  ;  but,  perhaps, 
he  most  thrust  himself  upon  Miss  Blair." 

"  He  was  very  kind  and  attentive  to  us  all,"  Nea 
answered.  "  In  fact,  he  did  more  than  anybody  else  to 
make  everything  go  off  smoothly." 

"  I  can't  find  out  who  the  dickens  he  is,  though," 
Armitage  broke  in  with  a  sigh.  He  was  an  old  habitui  of 
the  Riviera  and  had  imbibed  all  the  true  Rivieran  love  for 
scandal-mongering  and   inquisitiveness.    "  He  beats    me 


li  IV 


GOSSIP. 


39 


quite.  I  never  was  so  utterly  nonplussed  in  all  my  life. 
I've  tried  my  hardest  to  draw  him  out,  but  I  can  get 
nothing  out  of  him.  He  shifts,  and  evades,  and  prevari- 
cates, and  holds  his  tongue.  He  won't  be  pumped,  how- 
ever skillfully  you  work  the  handle." 

And  Armitage  flung  himself  back  in  a  despairing 
attitude. 

Nea  smiled. 

"  That's  not  unnatural,"  she  remarked  in  parenthesis. 

"  The  worst  of  it  is,  though,  the  other  fellow's  just  as 
reticent  as  he  is,"  Armitage  went  on,  unheeding  her  remarks. 
•'  Not  about  himself,  I  don't  mean — that's  all  plain  sailing  : 
Thistleton  phe  's  a  master  cutler  at  Sheffield,  who  manu- 
factures razors  by  appointment  to  Her  Majesty  (odd  imple- 
ments for  Her  Majesty  !),  and  is  as  rich  as  they  make  them 
— but  about  this  man  Gascoyne,  whom  you  call  '  the  scally- 
wag  '  " 

"  Oh,  say  ! "  Isabel  Boyton  interposed  frankly,  "  if  that 
aint  real  good  now.  It  was  you  yourself  that  taught  us 
the  word — we  innocent  lambs  had  never  even  heard  of  it — 
and  now  you  want  to  go  and  father  it  upon  us  !  " 

"  Well,  anyhow,  Gascoyne  seems  to  have  put  Thistleton 
up  to  it  to  keep  all  dark,  for  when  I  try  to  pump  him  about 
his  tutor  he  shuts  his  big  mouth,  and  looks  sheepishly 
foolish,  and  can't  be  got  to  say  a  single  word  about  him." 

"  What  was  that  Mrs.  Newton  was  saying  to  you  yesterday 
about  there  being  a  Sir  Somebody  Gascoyne  somewhere 
down  in  South  Wales  ? "  Mme.  Ceriolo  asked  with  languid 
interest. 

For  a  foreigner,  born  and  bred  abroad,  Mme.  Ceriolo's 
acquaintance  with  English  life  and  English  topography 
was  certainly  something  quite  surprising.  But  then,  you 
see,  her  dear  mamma,  as  she  was  careful  always  to  explain 
to  strangers,  was  English  born,  the  daughter  of  a  dean  and 


?■« 


i;' 


m 


(I  r   ..  ;.;■- 


I 


■! 


«., 


11 


ill' 


40 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


niece  of  a  viscount.  Very  well  connected  person  on  every 
side,  little  Mnie.  Cciiolol  And  a  dean  is  such  a  capital 
card  to  play  in  society  ! 

*'  Oh,  there  was  a  Sir  Emery  Gascoyne  at  Gascoyne 
Manor,  down  near  Haverfordwest,"  Armitage  explained 
glibly;  "a  very  rich  old  gentleman  of  sensitive  tastes 
and  peculiar  opinions.  1  stopped  there  once  when  I  was 
an  undergraduate.  Splendid  old  place — Elizabethan 
house — delightful  park — square  miles  of  pheasants  ;  but 
ill-tempered,  very.  If  this  young  fellow's  related  to  him — 
his  next-of-kin,  heir-at-law,  executor,  assign,  and  so  forth — 
now's  your  chance.  Miss  Boyton,  to  pick  up  that  English 
title  I  heard  you  say  yesterday  you'd  set  your  susceptible 
American  heart  upon." 

The  golden-haired  Pennsylvanian  smiled  resignedly. 
"I  can  never — never — never  be.  Lady  Isabel,"  she 
observed  with  pathos.  "  And  yet  I  feel  somehow  like  run- 
ning a  coronet !  " 

"  I  don't  think  Mr.  Gascoyne  can  be  in  any  way  con- 
nected with  these  Pembrokeshire  people,"  Nea  Blair  put 
in,  without  the  slightest  intention  of  contributing  at  all  to 
the  general  gossip.  "  He  told  me  his  family  lived  in  Sur- 
rey— and,"  she  added  after  a  moment's  faint  hesitation, 
"he  implied  they  were  by  no  means  either  rich  or  dis- 
tinguished." 

"  In  Surrey  ?  Where — where  ? "  urged  a  general  chorus, 
in  which  Armitage's  voice  and  Mme.  Ceriolo's  were  by  far 
the  most  conspicuous. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  ought  to  say,"  Nea  answered 
simply.  "  I  dragged  it  out  of  him  rather,  and  he  told  me 
in  confidence." 

"Oh,  if  it's  got  to  telling  you  things  in  confidence 
already,"  Armitage  retorted  with  a  very  meaning  smile,  "I 
wouldn't  for  worlds  dream  of  inquiring  any  further  into  the 


:  I 


fx 


GOSSIP. 


41 


matter.  Eh,  Mme.  Ceriolo?  What  do  you  think 
about  it  ? " 

1  lius  goaded  to  a  reply,  Nea  answered  at  once  with  a 
very  red  face,  *'  It  wasn't  so  very  much  in  confidence  as  all 
that  comes  to.     He  lives  in  Hillborough." 

"  Hillborough,"  Armitage  repeated,  with  a  very  abstruse 
air.  "  Then  that'll  exactly  do.  A  friend  of  mine's  a  vicar 
near  Hillborough — the  very  next  parish,  in  fact,  a  place 
called  Hipsley — and  I'll  write  and  ask  him  this  very  day  all 
about  the  mysterious  stranger.  For  when  a  man  possesses 
a  social  mystery,  it's  a  sort  of  duty  one  owes  to  society  to 
turn  him  inside  out  and  unravel  him  entirely.  Fellows 
have  no  right  to  set  us  double  acrostics  in  their  own  per- 
sons, and  then  omit  to  supply  the  solution." 

"Here  they  come,"  Mme.  Ceriolo  cried.  "The  two 
Oxonians  !  You'll  have  an  opportunity  now  to  try  your 
hand  again  at  him." 

Armitage's  eye  gleamed  like  a  setter's  .  n  the  trail  of 
quarry. 

**  I'll  have  one  more  try,  at  any  rate,"  he  said  with  an  air 
of  virtuous  resolution  ;  "  his  birth  shall  no  longer  be 
•  wropped  in  mj'stery,'  like  Jeames  de  la  Pluche's.  He 
shall  tell  us  all.  He  shall  be  forced  against  his  will  to  con- 
fess his  f°cret." 

The  blond  young  man  approached  th'j? "  carelessly. 

"  Morning,  Armitage,"  he  said  with  an  easy  nod.  Then 
he  lifted  his  hat,  "  Good-morning,  Mme.  Ceriolo.  Miss 
Boyton,  I  hope  your  mamma's  not  overtired  this  morning." 

♦•We're  all  too  stiff  to  do  anything  on  earth  but  sit  still 
and  scandalize,"  the  pretty  American  answered  with  pert 
fluency.  "  We  were  scandalizing  you  two  when  you  hove 
in  iight  round  the  next  block.  I  guess  you  must  have  felt 
your  ears  tingle." 

Paul  felt  his  tingling  at  that  precise  moment.  \    > 


% 


4* 


THE   SC.trr.  YU'AG. 


h 


n       t 

M 


t 

I, 


III! 


"What  were  you  saying  about  us  ?  "  he  inquired  eagerly. 

Miss  Hoyton  made  a  graceful  aiul  ladylike,  thout^h  faint 
variation    on  a  common  gesture  of  street-boy  derision. 

'•Wouldn't  you  just  like  to  know?"  she  responded 
saucily.  '•  You  can't  tell  what  things  we've  all  been  hear- 
ing about  you." 

*'  You  can  hardly  have  heard  much  that  was  true,"  Paul 
retorted  with  some  annoyance.  '•  Nobody  here  at  Mentonc 
knows  anything  of  my  family  ?  " 

"What,  have  you  no  friends  here?"  Mme.  Ceriolo 
inquired,  astonished.  "  How  very  odd  !  I  thought  every- 
body knocked  up  against  somebody  they  knew  in  Mentonc. 
The  world's  so  absurdly  small  nowadays."  And  she  sighed 
feelingly. 

Paul  hesitated. 

•'  Only  one  lady,"  he  answered,  after  a  brief  pause.  "  A 
friend  of  my  mother's.  And  I'm  sure  you  haven't  any  of 
you  met  her,  or  else  she'd  have  told  me  so." 

•*  Are  you  all  of  you  game  for  a  brisk  walk  to  Cap 
Martin  ? "  Thistleton  put  in  abruptly,  with  a  jerk  of  his 
thumb  in  the  direction  indicated.  "  We  must  do  something 
to  work  off  the  effects  of  that  infernal  jolting." 

"  Bar  the  swear-word,  I  quite  coincide,"  Isabel  Boyton 
answered. 

"  The  rest  of  us  are  too  tired,  I  think,"  ^'me.  Ceriolo 
yawned,  gazing  around  her  affectedly,  and  darting  a  very 
meaning  glance  at  Armitage. 

"  I'll  go,"  that  inquiring  soul  responded  promptly, 
"  catching  on  to  it,"  as  Miss  Boyton  afterward  observed, 
like  a  detective  to  the  traces  of  a  supposed  forger. 

"  You  won't  come,  Nea  ? "  the  American  asked  as  she 
rose  to  go. 

•*  I  don't  think  I  can,"  Nea  answered  hurriedly,  looking 
down  at  her  feet :  "  I  don't  feel   up  to  it."    As  a  matter 


V 


Gossrp. 


43 


of  fact,  nothing  on  earth  would  have  pleased  her  better; 
but  she  didn't  like  to  walk  with  Paul  after  Arniitagc's 
insinuations  that  he  had  been  (juick  in  taking  her  into  liis 
youthful  confidence. 

'*  Well,  let's  start  at  once,  then,"  the  blond  young  man 
remarked  cheerfully  ;  he  was  always  as  cheerful  as  health 
and  wealth  and  good  humor  can  make  one.  *•  We've  got  no 
time  to  lose,  I  expect,  if  we  mean  to  walk  out  to  the  point 
and  back  before  lunch-time." 

As  they  turned  to  set  out,  a  woman  passed  them  very 
unobtrusively  ;  a  Frenchwoman,  as  it  seemed,  neatly  but 
by  no  means  fashionably  dressed,  and  carrying  in  her  hand 
a  small  market-basket.  She  looked  at  Paul  very  hard  as 
she  went  by,  but  evidently  had  not  the  least  intention  of 
recognizing  him.  The  young  man,  however,  gazed  at  her 
for  a  moment  in  obvious  doubt  :  then  something  within 
him  seemed  to  get  the  better  of  him.  He  raised  his 
hat,  and  said  •*  Bon  jour^  MademoiseHe"  with  marked 
politeness. 

^^lionjour,  M.  Paul,"  the  Frenchwoman  answered  with  a 
respectful  smile,  evidently  pleased  at  his  recognition.  And 
they  both  passed  on  upon  their  respective  errands. 

But  as  soon  as  they  were  gone,  Mme.  Ceriolo  put  up  her 
tortoiseshell-eyeglass — the  eyeglass  she  reserved  for  her 
most  insolent  stares — and  regarded  the  unobtrusive  French- 
woman from  a  distance  with  a  prolonged  scrutiny.  *♦  Nea," 
she  said,  turning  round  to  her  charge  with  the  air  of  one 
who  has  made  a  profound  discovery,  •'  did  you  take  it  all 
in,  cetie  petite  comiiUe-lh  ?  How  simple  !  How  comical  ! 
How  charmingly  idyllic  !  He  didn't  know  whether  to  bow 
to  her  or  not,  in  such  good  company  ;  but  at  the  last 
moment  he  was  afraid  to  cut  her.  Poor  little  simpleton  ! 
How  very  fresh  of  him  !  This  is  evidently  the  lady  who 
was  his  mother's  friend,  I  suppose.     She  would  have  saved 


/ 


44 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


t 


•t 


him  the  exposure  if  slie  could.     Hut  he  hadn't  (he  tact  or 
the  jfood  sense  to  perceive  it." 

**  lie  was  (juite  rij^ht  to  bow,"  Nea  answered,  growing 
hot,  "whoever  she  may  l)e  ;  and  I  respect  him  all  the  more 
for  it." 

*'  Hut  do  you  know  who  she  is  ?"  madame  persisted,  all 
overflowing  with  su|)pressed  amusement. 

••No,  1  don't,"  Nea  answered;  "and  it  doesn't  much 
matter." 

Madame  braced  herself  up,  like  a  British  matron  com- 
pelled to  announce  a  most  shocking  truth.  •'  She's  a  lady's 
maid  with  a  family  at  the  ties  Britannicpies,"  she  answered 
shortly. 

There  was  a  brief  pause  after  the  explosion,  in  the  course 
of  which  Nea  and  Isabel  lioylon's  mamma  each  digested 
by  degrees  this  .startling  item  of  information.  Then  Nea 
murmured  aloud  once  more,  "  I  always  did,  and  p'ways 
shall,   like    scallywags.      I'm  glad    Mr.  Gascoyne  n't 

ashamed  to  acknowledge  her." 


CHAPTER  VI. 


THE   CONfMON    PUMP    IN    ACTION. 


The  square  party  of  pedestrians  turned  away  along  the 
sea-front,  and  then,  taking  the  main  road  toward  Nice, 
struck  off  for  the  basking,  olive-covered  promontory  of 
Cap  Martin.  Thistleton  led  the  way  with  the  Penn.syl- 
vanian  heiress  ;  Paul  and  Armitage  followed  more  slowly 
at  a  little  distance.  Isabel  Boyton  had  arranged  this  order 
of  malice  prepense  ;  for  she  was  a  mischievous  girl,  like  most 
of  her  countrywomen,  and,  though  not  inquisitive  enough 
herself  to  assist  in  the  process  of  pumping  Paul,  she  was  by 


i 


THE  COM M OS  PU.\tr  AV  ACTIOS. 


41 


no  means  averse  tu  sec  that  application  of  social  hydraulics 
put  into  practice  for  the  {general  benefit  l)y  a  third  person. 

"Queer  sort  of  body,  that  little  Mine.  Ceriolo  !  "  Arinit* 
a^e  bej^an  as  soon  as  they  were  out  of  earshot.  lie  was 
one  of  that  lar^e  class  of  people  who  can  .seldom  talk  about 
anylhinjj  on  earth  except  some  other  human  bciiij;.  Per. 
sonalities  largely  outweigh  generalities  in  their  conversation. 
With  all  the  world  to  choose  from,  with  sun,  moon,  and  stars, 
and  heavenly  bodies,  sea,  and  land,  and  air,  and  ether,  stone, 
and  soil,  and  plant,  and  animal,  history  and  .science,  and  art 
and  letters,  to  form  the  text  of  a  possible  talk,  they  can  find 
nothing  to  discuss  except  some  petty  detail  in  the  trivial  life 
of  some  other  fellow-creature.  That  Mrs.  Jones  has  quar- 
relled with  Mrs.  Brown,  or  that  Smivh  has  been  blackballed 
at  the  Chcyne  Row  Club,  seems  to  them  a  far  more  impor- 
tant and  interesting  fact  than  \\  eruption  of  Vesuvius  or  a 
cataclysm  at  St.  Petersburg. 

"  She  .seems  good-natured,"  Paul  answered,  without  pro- 
foundly gauging  the  depths  of  the  subject.  It  was  the  most 
charitable  thing  he  could  find  in  his  heart  to  say  about  her. 

"  Oh,  good-natured  enough,  no  doubt,"  Armitaq:e  went 
on  confidentially.  *•  Hut  what  a  curious  person  for  a  man 
of  the  world  to  think  of  intrusting  the  care  of  his  daugh- 
ter to  ! " 

'*  Perhaps  Mr.  Blair's  not  a  man  of  the  world,"  the 
younger  speaker  replied,  with  rare  sagacity  for  his  age. 
'•  Country  parsons  are  often  very  simple-minded  people." 

"  He  must  be  precious  simple-minded  if  he  took  the 
Ceriolo  for  anything  but  what  she  is,"  Armitage  continued, 
sneering.  "  A  brazen-faced  specimen  of  the  cosmopolitan 
adventuress,  if  ever  there  was  one.  But  how  clever,  too  ! 
ho,v  immensely  clever  !  Ton  my  soul,  1  admire  her  inge- 
nuity !  Having  accepted  a  situation  as  guardian  of  the 
morals  of  an  English  young  lady,  she  rises  to  the  full 


/ 


46 


THE  SCALLYWAG. 


■ 

\  i 


l'' 


height  of  her  post  with  astonishing  success  and  astonish- 
ing dignity.  Her  simulation  of  virtue's  something  quite 
sublime  in  its  own  way.  Why,  you'd  hardly  believe  it  ;  I 
attempted  to  flirt  with  her  in  the  mildest  possible  manner — 
I,  who  am.  the  discreetest  and  least  compromising  of  man- 
kind— a  mountain  of  prudenje — and  the  British  indignation 
and  icy  coldness  with  which  she  repelled  my  gentle  advances 
was  truly  edifying.  No  Belgravian  mamma  that  ever  lived 
could  have  done  it  more  beautifully." 

**  Perhaps  she  didn't  care  for  you,"  Paul  suggested  dryly. 
"  Even  a  born  flirt  doesn't  want  to  flirt  with  everybody 
indiscriminately." 

"  Perhaps  that  may  be  it,"  Armitage  echoed,  somewhat 
crestfallen.  He  was  over  thirty,  and  he  took  it  ill  that  a 
young  fellow  barely  of  age  as  yet  should  thus  calmly  snub 
his  pretensions  to  the  rdle  of  lady-killer.  "  But,  at  any  rate, 
her  respectability  is  beyond  reproach.  Being  cast  for  her 
part  by  pure  force  of  circumstances,  she  accepts  the  situa- 
tion and  plays  it  to  perfection." 

"  She's  quite  right  to  respect  Miss  Blair's  youth  and 
innocence,"  Paul  answered  quietly.  "  As  far  as  that  goes, 
I  think  all  the  better  of  her  for  it.  Even  if  she  is  an  adven- 
turess, as  you  say,  she's  bound,  as  things  stand,  to  do  the 
very  best  she  can  for  her  present  employer." 

"  Oh,  of  course — of  course.  You  speak  like  a  book,  a 
nice  little  Sunday-school  book,  with  a  picture  on  the  cover. 
But,  from  the  other  point  of  view,  you  know,  the  thing's  so 
ludicrous.  Her  careful  ..isumption  of  the  highest  morality's 
so  transparently  absurd.  Whenever  she  delivers  herself  of 
one  of  her  little  copy-book  platitudes,  I  always  feel  inclined 
to  put  my  tongue  in  my  cheek  and  wink  gently.  There's 
no  doubt  about  it,  though,  she's  devilish  clever.  She  can 
talk  every  blessed  European  language  with  equal  ease.  She 
seems,  like  the  famous  prima  donna  in  the  story,  to  have 


7 HE  COMMON  PUMP  IN  ACTION, 


47 


s  so 

[lity's 

ilf  of 

llined 

iere's 

can 

She 

Ihave 


swindled  in  every  civilized  country  of  the  world — and  also 
in  Germany." 

Paul  smiled. 

**  Her  French  is  certainly  admirable,"  he  said.  "  Her 
accent's  so  good.     She  speaks  like  a  Parisian." 

Armitage  darted  a  hasty  glance  at  him  sideways.  So  the 
fellow  pretended  to  be  a  judge  of  French  accents,  did  he  ? 
That  was  certainly  remarkable.  A  scallywag  on  accent  ! 
'*  But  her  English,  too,"  he  persisted  once  more  ;  "  what's 
still  odder  is  her  English.  She  rolls  her  rs  a  little,  to  be 
sure,  and  she  slurs  her  ths  ;  that's  only  natural ;  but  what 
admirable  fluency  and  what  perfect  command  she  has  of 
even  our  slang  and  our  stock  quotations  ?  She  can  pun 
and  jest  c-nd  bandy  chaff  in  English,  French,  Italian,  and 
German.  She  can  bully  a  cabman  or  browbeat  a  landlord 
in  ten  languages,,  If  her  name's  really  Ceriolo — which 
Heaven  only  knows — the  way  she's  learnt  English  alone  is 
something  to  my  mind  truly  miraculous." 

"  Her  mother  was  English,  she  says,"  Paul  suggested  in 
his  simplicity.  "  A  clergyman's  daughter,  she  told  me  ;  a 
dean  something  or  other." 

The  older  hand  laughed  at  him  to  his  face.  "  Do  yru 
really  mean  to  say,"  he  cried  with  an  amused  air,  "  5  ou 
believe  all  that  ?  Oh,  what  charming  simplicity  !  Why, 
you  might  as  well  believe  in  the  countess's  coronet,  and  the 
family  legend,  and  the  late  lamented  count  who  was  killed 
at  the  head  of  his  noble  troop  of  Austrain  sympathizers  by 
an  infuriated  Turk  in  the  war  in  Servia.  No,  no,  my  dear 
fellow  ;  don't  you  see  how  cleverly  all  that's  been  arranged? 
Madame  has  to  deal  with  a  respected  papa  who  happens  to 
be  an  English  clergyman.  Whatever  or  whoever  the  Ceriolo 
may  be,  she  thoroughly  understands  our  English  philistin- 
ism  and  our  English  prejudices.  The  respected  papa  won't 
intrust  his  precious  budding  daughter  to  anybody  who's  not 


48 


THE   SCALLYWAG, 


I 


m 


'  r 


a  highly  respectable  married  woman  and  a  member  of  the 
Church-  of  England  as  by  law  established.  Very  well,  then  ; 
we  can  easily  manage  that  for  you  ;  madame's  mamma  was 
an  English  lady — Anglican  of  course — yes,  and  clerical  too 
— a  dean's  daughter  ;  and  madame  herself,  though  born 
at  the  ancestral  Schloss  in  the  Austrian  Tyrol,  was  brought 
up  by  agreement  in  her  mother's  religion.  Could  anything 
be  simpler,  more  natural,  or  more  convincing?  And  how 
very  well  planned  !  French  and  German  w'^'.i  the  Pari45 
accent  and  the  Viennese  culture,  and  yet  all  the  advantages 
of  an  English  lady's  care  and  the  precise  and  particular 
type  of  Christendom  exactly  adapted  to. the  needs  and 
requirements  of  a  country  clergyman's  daughter !  By 
George,  she's  deep — extremely  deep.  But  if  it  were  a 
Frenchwoman  of  clerical  sympathies  she  had  to  deal  with, 
I  bet  you  she'd  be  a  Parisian  and  a  fervent  Catholic.  Not 
too  dhote^  you  know,  nor  austerely  rigorous,  but  as  Catho- 
lic as  a  dame  du  monde  ought  to  be." 

Paul  shifted  a  little  uncomfortably  in  his  pea-jacket. 
This  cynic  had  c'early  devoted  all  his  energies  to  the  study 
and  comprehension  of  his  fellow-creatures,  and  he  read 
them,  it  seemed,  a  trifle  too  easily  In  such  a  man's  hands, 
who  was  safe  for  a  moment  ?  Paul  was  afraid  what  the 
fellow  might  screw  and  worm  out  of  him. 

"  The  funniest  thing  of  all."  Armitage  went  on,  after  a 
short  pause,  "  is  that  she  speaks  all  languages  well,  but 
none  exactly  like  a  born  native.  Her  English's  splendid  ; 
but  her  rs  and  ths  are  a  trifle  German.  Her  French  is 
good  ;  but  her  us  and  her  eus  are  a  trifle  English.  He:* 
German's  prodigious ;  but  her  cfis  and  her  final  ^j  are 
scarcely  Hanoverian.  And  she  can't  talk  in  any  one  of 
those  languages  for  five  minutes  at  a  stretch  without  help- 
ing herself  out  now  and  again  quite  naturally  by  a  word 
from  another" 


THE   COMMON  PUMP  IN  ACTION. 


49 


fter  a 
but 
idid; 
ih   is 
He- 
are 
of 
lelp- 
^ord 


♦'  Perhaps,"  Paul  said,  "she  lived  as  a  child  in  all  three 
countries." 

"  Perhaps  so,"  Armitage  repeated.  "  But  there's  no  evi- 
dence. However,  1  mean  in  my  case  to  clear  up  her  history. 
1  was  writing  last  night  to  a  friend  of  mine,  a  parson,  who 
knows  Mr.  Blair — he's  the  vicar  of  Hipsley  near  Hill- 
borough,  in  Surrey — "  he  eyed  his  man  close  to  see  the 
effect  upon  him — *'  and  I've  asked  him  to  find  out  all  he  can 
about  her." 

'*  Indeed  !  "  Paul  said,  never  showing  surprise  by  a  mus- 
cle of  his  face.  *'  I  wonder  you  care  to  take  so  much  pains 
about  so  unimportant  a  piece  of  intelligence." 

"  Oh,  for  the  girl's  sake,  don't  you  know,"  Armitage 
added  hastily.  "Of  course,  she's  hardly  a  proper  person 
to  have  charge  of  a  young  lady  alone  on  the  Continent. 
Besides,  one  naturally  likes  to  know  what  sort  of  company 
one's  committing  oneself  to,  doesn't  one  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  it  much  matters,  as  long  as  they're  decent 
people"  Paul  answered  evasively. 

"  Ah,  but  that's  just  the  nnestion  at  issue,"  Armitage 
went  on,  trying  another  tach  "  My  man  at  Hillborough 
will  hunt  it  all  up.  He's  a  capital  hand  at  tracking  people 
down.  He  ought  to  have  been  a  deiective.  By  'he  way, 
I  fancy  I  heard  Miss  Blair  say  you  came  yourself  from 
somewhere  near  Hillborough." 

"  I  came  from  Hillborough  town,"  Paul  answered  shortly. 

"  Then  you  know  Rimington,  of  course." 

"  No,  I've  never  met  him." 

"Dear  me,  how  odd!  He's  a  vicar  at  Hip-^!  And 
he's  so  very  much  r/pandu,  as  the  French  say.  Spread 
about  at  every  tea-fight  and  lunch  and  garden-party  for 
twenty  miles  everywhere  around  Hillborough." 

"Yes?" 

"  Yes,  really.    You  must  have  seen  him.    Though  per- 


50 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


i 


I 


liaps,  you  took  him  for  a  layman  or  a  trainer's  assistant. 
A  bulkioggy-looking  parson — a  regular  slogger,  with  a 
taste  for  loud  tweeds  and  a  most  unclericai  necktie." 

'*  Oh,  1  know  him  well  by  sight,"  Paul  answered  in 
ha«?tc.     *'  I  only  meant  I'd  never  spoken  to  him 

Armitage  altered  the  venue  once  more.  "  I've  been 
down  in  that  part  of  the  w.^rld  myself,"  he  went  on  reflec- 
tively, '*  and  I  don't  remember  to  have  met  any  Gascoynes 
there." 

•  Most  likely  not,"  Paul  answered  with  energy. 

*'  You  spell  your  name  like  the  Pembrokeshire  people," 
his  persecutor  went  on.  "  U'f  a  very  rare  way.  Do  you 
happen  to  be  related  to  them  ?  " 

Thus  brought  to  bay,  Paul  answered  "  Yes,"  with  a  very 
great  effort,  and  then  relapsed  into  silence. 

But  Armitage  was  not  going  to  let  him  off  so  cheap. 
"  You  don't  moan  to  say  so  !  "  he  exclaimed,  with  real 
interest,  for  the  scent  was  growing  very  warm  now.  "  Then 
what  relation  are  you  to  the  present  baronet  ?" 

There  was  no  escape  from  it  any  longer.  Paul  gasped 
for  breath.  "Mr.  Armitage,"  he  said,  turning  suddenly 
upon  him,  like  a  hunted  creature  at  bay,  "you've  no  right 
to  question  a  stranger  like  th's.  My  private  affairs  are  my 
private  affairs.  I  refuse  t  answer.  I  decline  to  say  what 
relation  I  am  to  the  present  Sir  Emery," 

He  slipped  out  the  words  without  weighing  them  well. 
Armitage  leapt  upon  them  with  the  tru.?  joy  of  the  chase. 
"  The  present  Sir  Emery  !  "  he  exclaimed  with  much  irony. 
"  Why,  that's  a  queer  thing  to  say.  You  must  be  very  ill- 
informed  as  to  the  history  of  your  own  family,  it  seems, 
Gascoyne,  I  should  be  sorry  to  pit  my  information 
.against  youis  ;  but  I  was  under  the  impression,  shared  I 
believe  by  society  at  large,  that  the  late  Sir  Emery  was  the 
last  of  the  name,  and  that  the  property  in  Pembrokeshire 


THE  COMMON  PUMP  IN  ACTION. 


5» 


)ny. 
ill- 

MTIS, 

Lion 

Id   I 

Ithe 

lire 


had  gone  to  a  distant  cousin,  who's  not  a  baronet  at  all, 
Mrs.  Newton  tells  me." 

No  man  can  stand  having  his  veracity  impugned  by  such 
an  obvious  innuendo  of  falsehood  as  that.  Paul  Gascoyne 
drew  a  deep  breath  once  more  and  answered  warmly,  •*  There 
you  have  been  misinformed.  It's  not  my  business  to  set 
you  right.  You  can  correct  your  mistake  by  looking  in  a 
peerage.  But  if  you  mu!>t  know,  the  present  baronet  is  my 
fnther.  Sir  Emery  Gascoyne,  and  he  lives  at  Ilillborough." 

Armitage  gazed  at  the  flushed  young  face  and  angry  eyes 
in  blank  astonishment.  Apparently,  the  fellow  believed 
what  he  said  ;  but  how  absurd,  how  incredible !  This 
scallywag  the  heir  to  the  Gascoyne  baronetcy  and  the  Pem- 
brokchire  estates!  What  blunder  cou  d  he  have  made? 
What  error  of  identity  ?  What  mistak  5  of  fact  ?  What 
confusion  of  persons  ? 

However,  being  a  very  politic  young  man,  and  having 
now  obtained  all  the  information  he  wanted  or  was  likely 
to  get,  he  hastened  to  answer,  in  his  most  soothing  tones, 
"Dear  me  !  I  must  have  been  misinformed.  I  fancied  I'd 
heard  so.  A  very  great  family,  the  Gascoynes  of  Pem- 
brokeshire. I  stopped  once  down  at — at  your  uncle's 
place,"  and  he  glanced  inquiringly  at  Paul,  who  fronted  him 
angrily  ;  "what  a  magnificent  house  and  so  well  kept,  too, 
with  such  lovely  gardens  !  " 

"  Old  Sir  Emery  was  not  my  uncle,"  Paul  answered 
curtly.  "  I  never  saw  him.  But  the  subject's  one  I  don't 
care  to  talk  about." 

At  the  top  of  the  hill  they  changed  partners.  Armitage, 
all  agog  with  his  news,  took  Isabel  Boyton  ahead  quickly. 
"  Well,  I've  found  out  who  he  is,"  he  cried,  with  triumph  in 
his  face  ;  "  or,  at  least,  what  he  calls  himself.  Now's  your 
chance  for  that  English  title,  after  all.  Miss  Boyton.  He 
tells  me  his  father's  a  real  live  baronet." 


5< 


THE  SCALLYWAG. 


S''1l! 


"  He's  quite  nice,"  Isabel  answered,  gravely  digesting 
the  news,  "  and  I  don't  know  that  he  mightn't  fit  the  place. 
I  hook  on  to  him,  Mr.  Armitage." 

The  Englishman  smiled  at  her  credulous  simplicity.  A 
baronet's  son  !     That  threadbare  scallywag  ! 

They  returned  by  the  inland  road  in  varying  moods. 
Paul,  hot  with  the  thought  that  that  horrid  secret  would 
now  get  abroad  all  over  Mentone  and  make  him  the  laugh- 
ing-stock  of  the  Promenade  du  Midi,  went  home  alone  to 
the  H6tel  Continental.  Armitage  burst  radiant  into  the 
Jardin  Public,  big  with  his  latest  item  of  gossip. 

He  found  Mme.  Ceriolo  equally  excited  with  her  own 
discovery. 

**  Just  fancy,"  she  said,  as  he  sat  down  by  her  side  ; 
*^  figttrezvous,  mon  amiy  you  saw  that  woman  Mr.  Gascoyne 
bowed  to  the  moment  he  left  us  ?  Well,  who  in  the  world 
do  you  suppose  she  is  ?  A  lady's  maid — a  lady's  maid  at 
the  ties  Britanniques  !  And  he  raised  his  hat  to  her  ex- 
actly like  an  equal ! "  •  • 

"  And  who  do  you  think  he  is  himself  ? "  Armitage 
cried,  all  eagerness.  "  You'll  never  guess.  It's  too  absurd. 
He  says  his  father's  a  British  baronet."  '     ' 

"Oh,  no,"  Nea  Blair  exclaimed,  flushing  hot  with  a  burst 
of  sympathetic  shame.  "  He  never  said  that !  He  told  me 
quite  the  contrary.     It  can't  be  possible." 

"  He  did,  honor  bright,  I  give  you  my  word  for  it," 
Armitage  answered,  exploding.  "  He's  the  heir  to  the 
finest  estate  in  all  South  Wales,  and  he's  the  last  descend- 
ant of  an  ancient  and  noble  family  that  came  over,  like  the 
Slys,  with  Richard  the  Conqueror." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  Nea  exclaimed  stoutly;  meaning, 
not  that  she  disbelieved  Paul,  but  disbelieved  the  report  of 
his  ever  having  said  so. 

"  No  more  do  I,  Miss  Blair,  if  you  ask  my  honest 


S//!  EMERY  AND  LADY  GASCOYNE  AT  I/O  ME. 


53 


own 


opinion,"  Armitage  answered,  laughing.  "  I  expect  his 
uncle's  the  same  sort  of  baronet  as  the  unfortunate  noble- 
man who  lately  languished  so  long  in  Portland  Prison." 

"  There's  a  good  deal  of  doubt  about  baronetcies,  I 
believe,"  Mme.  Ceriolo  mused  to  herself  aloud.  "  They're 
not  so  regularly  looked  into  as  peerages.  And  I'm  given 
to  understand  there  are  a  great  many  baronets  knocking 
about  loose  on  the  world  at  present,  who  have  no  more 
claim  to  be  called  Sir  Somebody  So-and-so,  than  I  have  to 
be  called — well,  the  Queen  of  England," 

Very  dangerous  ground  for  you,  Mme.  Ceriolo  ! 


CHAPTER   VII. 


SIR  EMERY  AND  LADY  GASCOYNE  AT  HOME. 


)urst 
me 

it," 

the 

lend- 

the 

ling, 
hof 

lest 


Sir  Emery  Gascoyne,  Baronet, '^at  in  his  own  easy-chair 
in  front  of  his  own  fireplace  at  Hillborough,  Surrey.  It 
was  evening,  and  Sir  Emery  rested  after  his  day's  labors. 
He  had  been  out  driving  from  two  in  the  afternoon,  and  it 
was  cold  winter  weather  for  holding  the  reins,  for  Sir 
Emery  always  drove  himself.  He  had  ample  reason.  His 
fingers  were  numbed  and  cramped  with  driving.  He  found 
it  difficult,  indeed,  to  enter  in  a  book  a  few  notes  he  was 
endeavoring  to  make  of  his  afternoon's  engagements. 
"  'Ere,  Faith,  girl,"  the  British  baronet  called  to  his  daugh- 
ter in  the  adjoining  room,  "  I  can't  'old  pen.  Come  along 
and  enter  them  drives  to-day,  will  you  ?  I'm  most  clemmed 
with  cold,  it's  that  keen  and  bitter  up  o'  Kent's  'ill  this 
weather." 

"Just  wait  a  minute,  father,  dear,"  Faith  answered 
cheerily,  from  the  kitchen  behind.  "  I'm  coming  directly. 
We're  hotting  up  some  soup  for  your  supper,  here,  mother 


54 


THE  SCALLYWAG. 


and  I.     It's  lovely  soup,  darling,  and  it'll  thaw  you  out 
just  beautifully  as  soon  as  you  drink  it." 

The  voice  was  a  voice  like  her  brother's  own — soft  and 
sweet,  with  a  delicate  intonation  that  made  each  syllable 
clear  and  distinct  as  the  notes  of  a  bell.  Sir  Emery 
listened  to  it  with  a  fatherly  smile,  for  he  loved  her  well. 
"  God  bless  that  girl !  "  he  said  to  himself,  laying  down  the 
pen  he  could  scarcely  wield.  "  It's  a  comfort  to  'ear  'er. 
She  do  make  a  man  glad  with  that  pretty,  small  voice  of 
'ers." 

Sir  Emery's  room  was  neither  large  nor  handsomely 
furnished.  It  was  entered  direct  from  the  street  by  a  buff- 
colored  door,  and  it  led  by  a  second  similar  one  into  the 
kitchen  behind  it.  The  center  of  the  apartment  was 
occupied  by  a  square  table,  with  flaps  at  the  side,  covered 
with  that  peculiar  sort  of  deep-brown  oil  cloth  which  is 
known  to  the  initiated  as  American  leather.  A  sideboard 
stood  against  the  further  wall,  decorated  with  a  couple  of 
large  spiky  shells  and  a  spotted  dog  in  dark  red-and-white 
china.  The  spotted  dog  Faith  had  attempted,  more  than 
once,  surreptitiously  to  abolish,  *^ut  Sir  Emery  always 
brought  it  back  again  to  its  place  in  triumph  :  it  had  been 
his  mother's,  he  said,  and  he  was  sort  of  attached  to  it.  A 
couple  of  cane-bottomed  chairs,  a  small  horse-hair  couch, 
and  the  seat  which  Sir  Emery  himself  occupied,  completed 
the  furniture  of  the  Baronet's  reception-room. 

And  yet  there  were  not  wanting,  even  in  that  humble 
home,  some  signs  cf  feminine  taste  and  aesthetic  culture* 
The  spotted  dog  was  an  eyesore  that  Faith  could  never 
quite  get  rid  of ;  but  the  cheap  porcelain  vases,  with  the 
red  and  blue  bouquets  painted  crudely  on  their  sides,  and 
the  pink  paper  flowers  stuck  into  their  yawning  mouths, 
she  had  sternly  and  successfully  repressed  some  n.'onths 
ago.    In  their  place  two  simple  little  monochromatic  jars 


S//f  EMERY  AND    \ADY  GASCOYXE    IT  HOME, 


55 


imble 

llturf 

lever 

the 

L  and 

|uths, 

mths 

jars 


of  Linthorpe  pottery  were  installed  on  the  mantelpiece, 
and  some  sprigs  of  green  and  late-lingering  chrysanthemums 
usurped  the  former  throne  of  the  pink-paper  monstrosities. 
The  curtains  were  plain,  but  of  a  pretty  cretonne  ; 
the  covering  of  Sir  Emery's  chair  itseif  was  neat  and 
cheerful  ;  and  the  antimacassar  on  the  couch,  worked  in 
simple  crewels,  had  at  least  the  negative  merit  of  unob- 
trusiveness  and  harmony.  Altogether  one  could  easily  see 
at  a  glance  it  was  a  working  man's  cottage  of  the  superior 
sort,  kept  neat  and  sweet  by  loving  and  tasteful  hands, 
which  did  all  in  their  power  to  relieve  and  diversify  its 
necessary  monotony. 

For  the  British  baronet  was  not  known  as  Sir  Emery  at 
all  to  l)^s  friends  and  neighbors,  but  simply  and  solely  as 
Gascoyne  the  Flyman.  Most  of  them  had  heard,  indeed, 
in  a  vague  and  general  way,  that  if  everybody  had  his 
rights,  as  poor  folk  ought  to  have,  Martha  Gascoyne 
would  have  been  My  Lady  and  the  flyman  himself  would 
have  ridden  in  a  carriage  through  the  handsomest  park  in 
the  county  of  Pembroke.  But,  as  to  calling  him  anything 
but  plain  Gascoyne — him  the  driver  they  had  known  so 
well  from  his  childhood,  when  he  played  in  the  street  with 
them  all  as  children — why,  it  should  have  no  more  occurred 
to  those  simple  souls  than  it  occurs  to  any  of  us  to  address 
the  ordinary  familiar  descendant  of  Welsh  or  Irish  princes 
as  "Your  Highness  "  or  "  Your  Majesty." 

Sir  Emery  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  black  clay  pipe, 
and  waited  patiently  for  the  advent  of  his  soup.  As  soon 
as  it  arrived  he  ate  it  heartily,  at  the  same  time  dictating  to 
Faith  the  various  items  of  his  day's  engagements  (for  at  Hill- 
borough  long  credit  businesses  were  the  order  of  the  day) : 
"  Cab  from  the  station,  Mrs.  Morton,  one-and-six  ;  put  it 
two  shillin' ;  she'll  never  pay  till  Christmas  twelvemonth  ! 
To  Kent's  'ill  an*  back,  Cap'en  Lloyd,  *arf  a  suverin' ;  no, 


5^  THE  SCALLYWAG. 

'arf  a  suveriii's  not  a  penny  too  much,  missus ;  and  then 
to  the  Birches,  Mrs.  IJoyd-Galioway ;  that  lot's  worth  'alf- 
a. crown.  Faith.  If  ever  we  see  the  color  of  'er  money, 
'arf-a-crown's  not  a  farden  too  'ij;h  for  it." 

Faith  entered  the  items  dutifully  as  she  was  hid,  and  laid 
down  the  ledger  with  a  sigh  as  soon  as  they  were  finished. 
"I  can't  bear  to  think,  father,"  she  said,  "you  have  to  go 
out  driving  cold  nights  like  these,  and  at  your  age,  too, 
when  you  ought  to  be  sitting  home  here  comfortably  by 
the  fire." 

"  I  can't  abear  to  think  it  myself,  neither,"  Mrs.  Gascoyne 
echoed — for  why  keep  up,  now  we're  in  the  bosom  of  the 
family,  the  useless  farce  of  describing  her  as  my  lady  ?  It 
was  only  in  the  respected  works  of  Debrett  and  Bi^rke  that 
she  figured  under  that  unfamiliar  and  noble  designation. 
To  all  the  neighbors  in  Plowden's  Court  she  was  nothing 
more  than  plain  Mrs.  Gascoyne,  who,  if  everybody  had 
their  rights,  would  no  doubt  have  been  a  real  live  lady. 

The  baronet  stirred  the  fire  with  meditative  pokes. 

"  It's  a  wonderful  pity,"  he  murmured  philosophically, 
"that  nothing  couldn't  never  be  done  in  the  way  of  makin' 
money  out  of  that  there  baronite-cy.  It's  a  wonderful  pity 
that  after  all  them  years  we  should  be  livin'  on  'ere,  missus, 
the  same  as  usual,  a-drivin'  a  cab  day  an'  night  for  a  liveli- 
hood, when  we're  acshally  an'  in  point  of  law  an'  fac*  bar- 
onites  of  the  United  Kingdom.  It  beats  me  'ow  it  is  we 
can't  make  money  out  of  it." 

"  I  always  think,"  Mrs.  Gascoyne  responded,  taking 
out  her  knitting,  "that  you  don't  understan'  'ow  to  do  it, 
Emery." 

*'  Mother,  dear  !  "  Faith  said  low,  in  a  warning  voice,  for 
she  knew  only  too  well  whither  this  p'elude  inevitably 
tended. 

The  baronet  of  the  United  Kingdom  slowly  filled  his 


S/A*  A.VAAT  AND  LADY  CASCOYXh  A  I'  HOME.        57 


[king 
lo  it, 

,  for 
[ably 

his 


pipe  once  more,  as  he  finished  the  soup  and  poured  himself 
out  a  glassful  of  beer  from  the  jug  at  his  elbow.  •*  It  can't 
be  done,"  he  answered  conlidcntly.  "  There  aint  no  doubt 
about  that,  it  can't  be  done.  It  stands  to  reason  it  can't. 
If  it  could  be  done,  Mr.  Solomons  'ud  'a  done  it,  you  war- 
rant you,  long  ago." 

••This  aint  'ow  youM  ought  to  be  livin*  at  your  age, 
though,  Kmcry,"  Mrs.  Ciascoync  went  on,  sticking  to  her 
point.  "If  we  only  knowed  'ow,  we'd  ought  to  be  making 
money  out  of  it  some  'ow.'* 

••  Mr.  Solomons  is  a  rare  clever  man,"  the  baronet  replied, 
puffing  vigorously  away  at  the  freshly  'igjited  pipe.  *'  VVot 
I  say  is  this,  missus,  if  it  could  'a  been  done,  Mr.  Solomons 
'ud  'a  done  it." 

Faith  made  a  bid  for  a  gentle  diversion. 

"  I  met  Mr.  Solomons  this  evening,"  she  said,  "  as  I  was 
coming  home  from  school,  and  he  told  me  to  tell  yi>u  he'd 
look  in  on  business  to-morrow  morning,  before  you  went 
down  to  meet  the  10.40." 

"You're  tired,  Faith,"  her  father  said,  eying  her  kindly. 

Faith  smoothed  back  the  hair  from  her  high  white  fore- 
head— so  like  her  brother's. 

"  Only  a  little  bit,  father,"  she  answered  with  rather  a 
wearied  smile.  "  It's  the  Infants  that  are  so  tiring.  They 
wear  one  out.  They  don't  mean  to  be  worries,  poor  little 
souls,  of  course  ;  but  they  do  distract  one  a  bit  some- 
times." 

"  I  wish  you  was  well  quit  of  them  Infants,"  Mrs.  Gys- 
coyne  remarked,  "  and  could  'and  them  over  to  the  pupil- 
teachers.  The  big  girls  don't  give  no  trouble  at  all,  in  the 
manner  of  speaking,  by  the  side  of  the  little  ones.  It's 
when  you've  took  the  Infants,  I  always  take  notice,  you 
comes  'ome  most  worn  and  tired-like." 

"Oh,  it's  nothing,"  Faith  answered,  taking  her  mother's 


% 


5» 


THK   SCALLYWAG. 


I 


haiul  in  hers  and  soothing  it  gently.  "  It'll  be  over  soon 
for  this  term — the  holidayn  begin  on  Wednesday,  And 
when  I  think  of  father,  iltiving  out  in  tiie  cold  on  Kent's 
Hill  this  wftather,  I'm  ashamed  of  myself  to  think  1  ever 
complain  a  word  about  the  Infants." 

"I'hey're  rarely  trying,  them  Infants,  I'll  be  bound,"  her 
father  continued,  philosophically  slow.  **  I  mind  what  if 
was  myself,  when  you  was  all  little  ones,  you  an*  Paul  an' 
the  rest,  afore  we  buried  'Ope  ami  Charity,  play  in'  around 
among  the  'osses*  feet,  an'  kickin*  up  that  row  that  a  man 
couldn't  'ardly  'ear  to  take  a  order.  Charity  was  a  rare  one 
to  make  a  noise,  she  was  ;  she  was  the  biggest  o'  the  three, 
when  you  was  all  born  ;  for  'the  greatest  o'  these,'  says  the 
parson,  *  is  Charity.*  And  wot  it  must  be  to  'ave  twenty  or 
thirty  of  'em,  all  to  once,  acryin'  and  achatterin',  why,  it 
beats  everything." 

"  'Ope  an'  Charity  was  two  blessed  little  creatures,"  Mrs. 
Gascoyne  interposed  with  a  tear  in  her  eye.  "  'I'hey  never 
got  in  nobody's  way,  I'm  sure,  Emery.  'Ope  'ud  be  eigh- 
teen year  old  come  May,  if  she'd  'a  lived.  An' Charily  was 
always  'ead  of  the  class  in  'rithmetic.  Miss  Taylor,  she 
says  to  me  more'n  once,  *  Wot  a  wonderful  'ead  that  there 
child  o'  yours  have  got,  to  be  sure,  Mrs.  Gascoyne,  for 
figgers  and  such  like.'  " 

"  'E's  a  rare  clever  man,  Mr.  Solomons,"  the  father 
repeated,  relapsing,  after  the  wont  of  his  kind,  into  the 
dominant  subject :  "an'  if  any  man  could  do  it,  you  take 
my  word  for  it,  missus,  Mr.  Solomons  'ud  'a  done  it." 

"  It  seems  sort  o'  throwed  away  as  things  stand  now," 
Mrs.  Gascoyne  went  on,  in  spite  of  a  quick  deprecatory 
glance  from  her  daughter's  eyes.  "  It  aint  no  good  at  all, 
as  far  as  I  can  see,  except  for  a  customer  to  chaff  you  about 
sometimes." 

The  baronet  blew  the  smoke  slowly  through  his  ringed 


s/A'  /':A//:A'y  Axn  i.Anv  gascoyne  at  home. 


59 


itory 
all, 
kboiit 

iged 


lips.  •*  I  might  a'  kep*  a  pii!)Iic,  an'  made  money  out  of  it 
that  way,"  he  said,  "  but  you  wan  always  agin  a  public, 
mother  ;  an'  I  don't  blame  you  for  it.  A  public's  a  poor 
sort  o'  way  f(»r  a  ni  \n  to  employ  a  historical  name,  as  Mr. 
Solomons  |)uts  it.  Hut  if  I  '.idn't  'a'  been  married  now, 
afore  the  title  came  to  its,  I  might  'a'  made  something  of  it 
like  that  niyself  you  see,  missus — mcanin'  to  say,  in  the  way 
of  a  hairess." 

Poor  Faith  saw  that  the  bolt  had  fallen — that  well-known 
bolt  which  descended  with  periodical  regularity  from  the 
clear  sky  of  her  father's  unruffled  good  humor — and  she 
gave  up  the  attempt  any  longer  to  deljiy  the  rising  tem- 
pest. 

'*rn\  sure,  Kmery,"  her  mother  broke  in,  with  a  stifled 
sob,  "  you  needn't  always  W  a-castin'  that  in  my  teeth  — 
that  I  stood  in  your  way  agin  makin'  your  fortune.  It 
aint  no  fault  o*  mine,  nor  my  people's  neither,  that  you  was 
took  with  me  and  arst  me  to  marry  you.  Arnt  Emily  was 
always  agin  my  'avin'  you.  An'  there  was  many  as  said  at 
the  time,  you  know  yourself  well  enough,  I'd  throw'd  myself 
away,  an'  I  might  'a'  done  better  far  to  take  another  one. 
Why,  there  was  Alfred  Dyke,  him  as  owned  the  mill  at 
Chase's  Corner " 

The  baronet  of  the  United  Kingdom  checked  her  threat- 
ened outburst  of  early  reminiscences  kindly.  *•  It  aint  for 
myself,  I'm  thinkin',  mother,"  he  said,  with  a  nod  or  two  of 
his  chin  ;  "  it  aint  for  myself,  not  anyways,  but  for  the 
children.  VV'ot  a  thing  it  'ud  'a'  been  for  Faith  and  Paul, 
now,  if  I'd  'a'  'appened  to  be  a  bachelor,  don't  you  see,  at 
the  time  wen  this  thing  fell  in,  and  'ad  married  a  hairess,  as 
would  'ave  brought  *em  up  like  ladies  and  gentlemen — 
ladies  an'  gentlemen  the  same  as  they'd  ought  to  be  !  " 

Faith  couldn't  forbear  a  gentle  smile.  '*  But,  father  dear," 
she  said,  smoothing  his  hand  with  hers,  "  don't  you  see 


Co 


THE   SCAI.L/WAG. 


yourself  it  wouldn't  have  been  Paul  and  me  at  all  in  that 
case  ?  It'd  be  somebody  else  we  none  of  us  know  or  care 
anything  about,  wouldn't  it  ?  " 

"But  it  do  seem  a  pity,"  her  father  went  on  musingly, 
"  that  the  value  of  the  baronite-cy,  for  commercial  pur- 
poses," he  paused  a  while,  and  then  repeated  once  more  that 
high-sounding  phrase,  "  for  commercial  purposes,"  rolling 
it  on  his  palate  like  one  who  loved  it,  "  should  'a'  been 
clean  throwed  away,  as  Mr.  Solomons  says,  all  through  the 
fack  that  I  'appeued  to  be  married  afore  1  came  into  it." 

Mrs.  Gascoyne's  handkerchief  went  up  to  her  eyes  with 
dramatic  rapidity  ;  and  Faith,  holding  up  one  finger  to  her 
father,  stroked  her  mother's  hair  with  her  other  hand  with 
filial  tenderness.  "  1  wish,"  she  said  half  angrily,  "  Mr. 
Solomons  had  never  put  these  ideas  into  your  head,  father. 
I'm  sure  you'd  never  have  thought  of  it  at  all,  for  yoursc  If. 
You'd  never  have  dreamt  of  making  money  out  of  anything 
on  earth  so  sacred  as  that  is." 

"  I  don't  say,  Faith,"  her  father  went  on,  eyeing  his  beer 
with  the  light  of  the  paraffin  lamp  shining  through  it  ;  "I 
don't  say  as  ever  I'd  married  for  money,  or  made  capital 
like,  as  Mr.  Solomons  says,  out  o'  the  title  an'  that.  I 
don't  say  as  I've  the  manners  or  the  eddication  to  do  it. 
I'm  satisfied  with  your  mother,  as  'as  always  been  a  true 
an*  faithful  wife  to  me,  in  sickness  an'  in  'ealth,  an'  no 
woman  better." 

"  If  you  weren't,"  Faith  interposed,  "  you'd  be  the 
ungratefullest  man  in  all  Hillborough." 

"  If  I  wasn't,"  her  father  repeated  dutifully,  following  his 
cue,  "  I'd  be  the  ongratefullest  man  in  all  Hillborough.  1 
know  all  that,  an'  I  aint  a-denyin'  of  it.  But  wot  I  says  is 
just  this  :  I  says  to  Solomons  this  very  last  Sunday,  *  Mr. 
Solomons,'  says  I,  *  if  I'd  a'bin  a  bachelor  w'en  this  title  fell 
in,  there's  many  a  tidy  woman  as  'ad  her  thousand  pound 


5/A*   EMERY  AXD   I.ADY  GASCOYNE   AT  HOME. 


6 1 


3eer 
"I 

Dital 
I 

o  it. 

true 
no 

the 

\  his 
.  1 
IS  is 
IMr. 
fell 
ind 


or  two  put  away  in  the  bank,  'ud  'a'  bin  glad  to  call  'ersell 
Lady  Gascoyne  on  the  strei.gth  of  it." 

**  Emery,"  his  wife  sobbed,  holding  her  face  in  her  hands, 
"  I  call  it  most  onnianly  of  you.  Many's  the  time  I've  done 
a  good  cry,  all  along  of  your  talking  in  that  onmanly 
manner," 

The  father  of  the  family  turned  round  to  her  soothingly. 
"  Mind  you,  mother,"  he  went  on,  in  a  demonstrative  voice, 
**  I  don't  say  as  I'd  ever  'ave  wanted  'er  for  all  'er  thous- 
ands. I  aint  that  kind.  I'm  not  one  as  sets  so  much  store 
by  the  money.  Wot  I  do  say  is,  as  a  matter  o'  business, 
it's  a  pity  the  baronitecy  should  be  throwed  away,  an' all 
for  nothing," 

**  It  won't  be  throwed  away,"  the  mother  responded,  dry- 
ing her  eyes  hysterically,  "  not  after  our  time.  Paul 'ave 
'ad  a  good  education,  an'  Paul  '11  marry  a  woman  as  is  fit 
for  'im." 

"  There  aint  no  doubt  at  aii  about  that,"  the  British  baro- 
net answered  in  a  mollified  tone.  "  As  Mr.  Solomons  says, 
our  Paul  *ave  a  splendid  future  before  him." 

**  Oxford  'ave  made  a  gentleman  of  'im,"  Mrs.  Gascoyne 
continued,  gloating  ovei  the  words. 

"  It  'ave,"  the  father  replied,  gazing  deep  into  the  fire. 
"  There  aint  no  doubt  of  it.  We've  all  got  reason  to  be 
main  grateful  to  Mr.  Solomons  for  that  much." 

"  I  never  feel  quite  so  sure  about  that,  somehow,"  Faith 
ventured  to  say.  '*  I  often  wonder  whether  Paul  wouldn't 
have  been  happier,  and  whether  we  wouldn't  all  have  been 
happier,  if  Mr.  Solomons  had  never  meddled  at  all  in  our 
private  business." 

"  I  do  wonder  at  you,  Faith  ? "  her  mother  exclaimed, 
aghast.  **  You  to  talk  like  that,  when  we  ought  all  to  be  so 
beholden  like  to  Mr.  Solomons  !  " 

**  Look   what   'e've  done   for   Paul  !  "   the  father  cried 


if:  •' 


63 


Tf/E   SCALLYIVAG. 


: 


eagerly.  "  If  it  wasn't  for  'im,  Paul  might  be  tendin'  the 
'osses  still,  the  same  as  I  do." 

"  But  we've  got  to  pay  him  for  it,"  Faith  answered 
stoutly.  "  Sooner  or  later  we've  got  to  pay  him.  And  see 
what  notes  of  hand  he's  made  you  sign  for  it  !  " 

"Ay,  but  Paul  '11  settle  all  that,"  the  father  replied  with 
absolute  confidence,  "and  afore  long,  too,  I  warrant  you. 
little  one!  Why,  if  it 'adn't  bin  for  Mr,  Solomons,  we'd 
never  so  much  as  'a'  thought  o'  sendin'  'im  to  college  an' 
makin*  a  gentleman  of  'im.  An'  now,  Mr.  Solomons  says 
'e's  a'most  through  with  'is  coUegin',  an'  ready  to  make  'is 
start  in  life.  If  'e  does  as  Mr.  Solomons  means  'im  to  do,  'e'll 
pay  it  all  off,  principal  an'  interest,  as  easy  as  winkin'. 
We've  all  got  reason  to  be  main  grateful  to  Mr.  Solomons. 
'E's  a  clever  one,  'e  is,  if  ever  there  was  one.  An'  'e  says 
it  as  knows,  says  'e  to  me,  *  Gascoyne,'  says  'e,  *  your  boy 
Paul,  if  'e  plays  'is  cards  well,'  says  'e,  *  as  'e'd  ought  to  play 
'em,  'ave  a  splendid  future,'  says  'e,  *  before  'im.'  " 

"  But  he  won't  play  them  as  Mr.  Solomons  v;ants  him, 
I'm  sure,"  Faith  answered,  unabashed.  "  He'll  play  them 
his  own  way,     He  can't  do  any  other." 

•*  'E'll  pay  it  all  off,"  the  baronet  repeated,  ruminating 
the  words  with  infinite  pleasure,  "  'e'll  pay  it  all  off,  when  'e 
once  gets  'is  start,  principal  an'  interest,  as  easy  as  winkin'." 

The  happiness  he  derived  from  the  mere  sound  of  those 
opulent  expressions,  "principal  and  interest,"  as  he  rolled 
them  on  his  palate,  seemed  more  than  to  repay  him  for  any 
lime  passing  discomfort  the  sense  of  indebtedness  to  his 
supposed  benefactor  might  otherwise  have  cost  him.  It 
makes  a  man  feel  almost  like  a  capitalist  himself  when  he 
can  talk  glibly  about  principal  and  interest. 


PAUL'S  ADVISER. 


65 


in' 
lose 
pled 
I  any 

his 
It 

he 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

PAUL'S    ADVISER. 

In  another  room  at  Hillborough,  that  self-same  evening, 
two  other  people  were  discussing  still  more  eagerly  together 
this  identical  problem  of  the  market  value  of  a  British 
baronetcy. 

The  house  in  which  they  discussed  it  had  a  dingy,  stingy, 
gloomy-looking  front,  commanding  a  full  view  of  the 
market  and  the  High  Sfeet  ;  and  on  the  venerable  wire- 
blinds  in  the  office  window  the  inquiring  wayfarer  might 
make  ouc  through  the  dust  that  clogged  them  the  simple 
legend,  "  Judah  P.  Solomons,  Auctioneer  and  Estate 
Agent."  Not  that  Mr.  Solomon?  really  subsisted  upon  the 
net  profits  of  his  auctioneering  and  commission  on  rents. 
Those  were  but  the  ostensible  and  officially  avowed  sources 
of  his  comfortable  revenue.  The  business  that  really  en- 
riched Mr.  Solomons — for  Mr.  Solomons  was  undoubtedly 
rich — was  the  less  respectable  and  less  openly  confessed 
trade  of  a  genciai  money-lender.  Mr.  Solomons  was,  in 
fact,  by  profession  a  capitalist.  He  made  those  familiar 
advances,  on  note  of  hand  alone,  without  security,  at 
moderate  interest,  which  have  so  often  roused  our  ardent 
admiration  for  the  generous  mi.xture  of  philanthropic  spirit 
and  the  love  of  adventure  in  the  amiable  lender  when  we 
read  the  tempting  announcement  of  the  proffered  boon  in 
the  advertisement  columns  of  our  pet  daily  paper. 

Mr.  Solomons  himself,  the  philanthropist  in  question,  was 
a  short  but  portly  man  of  a  certain  age  :  it  was  clear  he 
had  thriven  on  the  results  of  his  well  directed  benevolence. 
His  figure  was  rotund  and  his  face  fat  :  he  had  small 
black,  beady  eyes,  rich  in  life  and  humor  ;  and  his  mouth, 
though  full,  was  by  no  means  deficient  in  human  kindness, 


11 


64 


THE   SCAirVlVAC,. 


His  hair  was  curly,  and  displayed,  perliaps,  a  trifiiiig  dis- 
regard of  ecoiiotny  in  the  matter  of  bear's  grease  ;  but  his 
entire  appearance  was  not  wholly  unprepossessing :  he 
looked  like  a  sharp  and  cunning  business  man,  in  whom, 
nevertheless,  the  trade  of  assisting  his  fellow-creatures  in 
distress  (for  a  modest  percentage)  had  not  altogether  killed 
out  the  heart  that  beat  within  the  ample  and  well-filled 
fancy  waistcoat.  The  acute  reader  may,  perhaps,  already 
have  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  Mr.  Solomons  was  by 
race  a  Jew,  and  in  that  conclusion  the  acute  reader  would 
not,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  have  been  quite  unjustified. 
In  creed,  however,  Mr.  Solomons  had  conformed  so  suc- 
cessfully to  the  Church  of  England  (mainly,  perhaps,  for 
business  reasons)  that  he  filled  at  that  moment  the  onerous 
duty  of  vicar's  churchwarden  for  the  parish  of  Hillborough. 
In  a  country  town  Judaism  is  at  a  discount  ;  and  Mr. 
Solomons  was  too  good  a  Jew  at  heart  ever  to  touch  any- 
thing at  a  discount,  except,  of  course,  for  the  purpose  of 
bulling  or  bearing  it. 

The  younger  gentleman  who  sat  opposite  Mr.  Solomons, 
at  the  first  floor  fireplace  above  the  dingy  office,  was  half 
an  inch  taller,  and  many  inches  smaller  round  the  waist ; 
but  he  otherwise  bore  a  distinct  resemblance  in  figure  and 
feature  to  his  prosperous  relative.  Only,  in  Lionel  Solo- 
mons' face,  the  cunning  and  the  sharpness  of  his  uncle's 
eyes  and  mouth  seemed,  if  anything,  to  be  actually  ex- 
aggerated, while  the  redeeming  qualites  of  good  humor 
and  good  fellowship  were  both,  on  the  contrary,  conspicu- 
ous by  their  absence.  Lionel  was  handsome  with  the 
Oriental  handsomeness  of  the  well-fed  young  Jew ;  and  he 
had  brought  down  from  town  with  him  the  offensive  un- 
derbred jaunty  cosmopolitanism  of  the  shady  middle  class 
in  that  great  desert  of  London  which  is  so  peculiarly  repul- 
sive to  a  cultivated   understanding.     His  hair  was  even 


PAV/.'S  ADVISER. 


<5S 


ions, 
half 

list ; 
and 

)Olo- 

:le's 

ex- 

imor 

)icu- 

the 

he 

un- 

blass 

Ipul- 

Iven 


curlier  and  more  oleaginous  than  Mr.  Solomons'  own  ;  and 
he  held  between  his  lips  a  cheap  bad  cigar,  which  he  man- 
aged with  all  the  consummate  easy  grace  of  a  genlleman 
accustomed  to  ride  into  the  City  every  morning  in  the 
envied  seat  beside  the  driver  of  the  omnibus  he  honored 
with  his  distinguished  jKitronage. 

Mr.  Solomons  unrolled  a  packet  of  greasy,  much-foldetl 
papers,  which  he  had  taken  from  a  pigeon-hole  in  the  safe 
by  his  side,  and  laid  them  one  after  another  upon  his  knee, 
where  he  regarded  them  closely  with  evident  affection. 
"  Yes,  Leo,"  he  said  rc-assuringly,  '*  they're  all  right 
enough.     Every  penny  of  that  money's  as  safe  as  houses." 

"  I'd  like  to  see  the  collateral,  that's  all,"  Mr.  Lionel 
answered,  with  a  jaunty  toss  of  his  curled  head.  '*  It's  a 
precious  lot  of  money  to  lend  upon  personal  security,  and 
that  a  man  of  straw,  or  less  than  straw,  if  it  comes  to  that, 
Uncle  Judah." 

Mr.  Solomons  took  up  the  newest  of  the  lot  and  examined 
it  tenderly.  **  Twelve  months  after  date,"  he  mused  to 
himself  in  a  softly  murmuring  tone,  "for  value  received — 
two  hundred  pounds — renewable  with  twenty  per  cent, 
interest,  Emery  Gascoyne — perfectly  regular.  It's  a  good 
investment,  Leo — a  good  investment."  He  turned  over  a 
second,  and  looked  at  the  endorsement.  '*  Sir  Emery  Gas- 
coyne, Bart.,"  he  continued  softly  ;  *'  accept  jd  as  fair  as  an 
acceptance  can  be.  Good  business,  Leo,  my  boy — very 
good  business." 

"  How  much  did  you  give  him  for  this  two  hundred, 
now  ?  "  Mr.  Lionel  asked  in  a  somewhat  contemptuous 
tone,  taking  it  up  carefully. 

The  elder  man  seized  it  once  more  with  a  nervous  grasp, 
like  one  who  fears  to  let  a  favorite  and  fragile  object  pass 
for  a  moment  out  of  his  own  possession. 

"A  hundred  and  fifty,"  he  answered,  refolding  it  and 


u 


X. 


THE   SCALLYWAG, 


I 


replacing  it  in  due  order  ;  "  and  then  twenty  per  cent,,  you 
see,  on  the  full  two  hundred,  every  time  it's  renewed,  after 
the  first  year,  gives  a  good  interest." 

Lionel  looked  up  with  an  amused  air. 

"Well,  all  I  can  say,"  he  put  in  with  a  smile,  "is — that 
aint  the  way  we  do  business  in  the  city.  " 

*'  Perhaps  not,"  his  uncle  answered  with  a  faint  air  of 
vexation.  It  was  evident  that  this  was  his  pet  venture,  and 
that  certain  vague  doubts  as  to  its  perfect  soundness  in  his 
own  mind  made  him  all  the  more  impatient  of  outside 
criticism.  "  But,  Leo,  you  don't  know  everything  in  Lon- 
don. One  of  the  great  points  in  a  country  business  is  just 
that — to  be  able  to  tell  who  you  can  trust,  and  who  you 
can't,  on  their  own  sense  of  honesty." 

Mr.  Lionel  sneered. 

"I  trust  nobody  myself,"  he  responded  vigorously,  puff- 
ing at  his  cigar  with  a  violent  puff,  to  inforce  the  full 
depth  and  breadth  of  his  sentiment. 

"  Then  that's  bad  business,"  Mr.  Solomons  answered, 
with  one  fat  forefinger  raised  didactically.  "Take  my 
word  for  it,  my  boy,  that's  bad  business.  I  wouldn't  be 
half  what  I  am  now,  and  you'd  be  helping  me  in  the  old 
shop  in  the  Borough,  if  I'd  trusted  nobody.  But  I 
knew  who  to  trust,  and  that's  what's  made  me.  Bind  'em 
down  on  p  ^  it  as  fast  as  you  can,  of  course  ;  I'm  not  one 
to  omit  having  everything  legal,  and  fixed,  and  regular  ; 
but  all  the  papers  and  stamps  and  parchments  in  the  world 
won't  do  you  any  good  if  you've  got  hold  of  a  rogue.  No, 
never  a  stamp  of  them  !  A  rogue  can't  be  made  to  pay  if 
he  don't  want.  A  rogue  '11  go  through  the  court  to  spite 
you.  A  rogue  '11  take  things  before  his  honor,  the  county 
court  judge,  and  explain  everything  ;  and  his  honor  '11  give 
judgment  for  reduced  interest.  It  aint  the  paper  and  the 
Stamps  and  the  signatures  that  does  it ;  it's  the  man  him« 


PAULS  ADVISER. 


67 


the 


self  you've  got  to  trust  to.  You  once  get  hold  of  an  honest 
man,  and  if  he  works  his  fingers  to  the  bone,  and  his  knees 
to  the  stumps,  he'll  pay  you  somehow — principal  and 
interest  ;  he'll  pay  you  somehow.  And  Sir  Kmery  Gas- 
coyne,  Bart.,  he's  an  hone  4  man,  and  so's  Paul.  He 
may  only  be  a  cab  and  fly  proprietor,"  Mr.  Solomon  went  on, 
giving  his  debtor  the  full  benefit  of  his  whole  legal  desig- 
nation ;  "but  Sir  Emery  Gascoyne,  Bart.,  cab  and  fly  pro- 
prietor, of  Plowden's  Court,  Hillborough,  is  as  honest  a 
man  as  ever  stepped,  and  Paul,  his  son,  is  one  that  takes 
after  him." 

'*  It  was  that  title  of  '  Bart.,'  in  my  opinion,  that  led  you 
astray  in  the  first  instance,"  his  nephew  went  on,  with  a 
touch  of  scorn  in  his  voice  ;  "and,  having  once  begun,  you 
didn't  like  to  confess  your  mistake,  and  you've  kept  to  it 
ever  since,  getting  deeper  and  deeper  in  it." 

Mr,  Solomons  shuffled  uneasily  in  his  chair.  The  young 
man  had  touched  him  on  a  tender  point.  "  I  don't  deny, 
Leo,"  he  answered  with  apologetic  softness,  "  that  the  title 
of  *  Bart.'  had  a  great  deal  to  do  with  it.  A  man  who's 
born  a  Jew  can't  get  over  that ;  and  I'm  proud  to  think,  if 
I've  changed  my  religion,  I've  never  attempted  to  skakeoff 
my  ancestors.  It  came  about  like  this,  you  see.  It  was 
six  years  ago  or  more — let  me  see,  I  have  it  here — yes, 
seven  years  ago  on  the  fourth  of  February — number  one 
falls  due  on  the  fourth  every  year  ;  it  was  seven  years  ago 
Gascoyne  came  to  me,  and  he  says,  '  Mr.  Solomons,  I  want 
your  advice,  knowing  you  to  be  a  better  man  of  business 
than  any  lawyer  in  the  town' — for  Gascoyne  knows  Barr 
and  Wilkie  are  fools — *  and  I've  just  come  into  a  baronetcy,' 
says  he.  Well,  when  I  heard  that,  I  lifted  my  hat,  having 
always  a  strong  respect  for  rank  and  title  and  everything 
of  that  sort — I  wouldn't  be  one  of  the  seed  of  Abraham  if 
I  hadn't — and  I  said  to  him,  *  Sir  Emery,  I'm  very  glad  to 


!    il 


68 


TfrE   SCAII.YIVAG. 


hear  it ;  and  if  there's  anything  I  can  do  for  you  in  the  way 
of  a  little  temporary  accommodation* — thinking,  of  course, 
there  was  money  coming  with  it,  as  a  man  would  naturally 
expect  with  a  baronetcy — *  I'll  be  haj>py  to  arrange  it  on  the 
most  moderate  terms  for  you.'  For  when  a  man  in  his 
position  comes  into  a  title  and  a  big  estate,  he's  likely 
to  want  a  little  temporary  accommodation  at  first,  just  to 
make  a  good  show  when  he  goes  to  claim  his  own  of  the 
executors." 

"  To  be  sure,"  his  nephew  assented  blandly. 

"Well,  you  see,"  Mr.  Solomons  went  on,  still  in  a  very 
self-exculpatory  tone,  "  it  soon  turned  out  that  there  wasn't 
any  money — that  the  money'd  all  gone  to  the  other  branch 
of  the  family.  But,  having  made  Sir  Emery  a  preliminary 
advance,  and  having  been  the  very  first  man  in  the  world  to 
call  him  *  Sir  Emery,'  " — Mr.  Solomons  loved  to  repeat 
that  title  in  private  life  whenever  he  could  ;  it  was  so  dear 
to  his  soul  to  be  thus  brought  into  contact  with  a  real  live 
baronet — "I  thought  to  myself,  'Well,  having  once  begun, 
I'll  see  the  thing  through  to  the  bitter  end  now,  whatever  it 
costs  me.*  And  I  look  at  it  acco^'Mngly,  Leo,  as  a  long 
investment." 

"  A  very  long  investment,  indeed  !  "  Mr.  Lionel  answered, 
with  an  ugly  smile.  '*  You'll  never  see  a  penny  of  your 
money  again,  I  take  it." 

"  I'll  see  every  farthing  of  it  back  in  full,  I'll  ti  ke  my 
davy  !  "  his  uncle  retorted,  with  a  rather  red  face — his  heart 
was  suspected.  **  Gascoyne  and  his  son  are  honest  people 
— good  honest  people,  as  ever  lived — and  they'll  pay  me  all, 
if  they  work  themselves  to  death  for  it.  But  it  wasn't  only 
the  money  I  thought  of,*'  he  continued,  after  a  short  pause. 
"  No,  no,  Leo.     It  wasn't  only  the  money  I  thought  of." 

"  It's  all  /think  of,"  his  nephew  assented  candidly. 

"Then  so  much  the  worse  for  you,  my  dear,"  Mr.  Solo- 


p.tf'f's  APi'fsr.ff 


69 


my 
;art 
h-)le 
all, 
jnly 
ise. 


lo- 


mons  replied  with  equal  frankness.  "  I'hat's  a  mistake  in 
life.  You  miss  the  half  of  it.  What  1  thought  was  this. 
Here's  this  man— a  common  flyman — a  petty  little  cab- 
owner  with  four  horses  of  his  own,  no  more  than  four 
horses,  and  screws  at  that ;  but  a  British  baronet.  If  you 
and  I  were  to  work  all  our  lives,  Leo,  and  slave  and  save, 
and  toil  and  moil,  we'd  never  rise  to  be  British  baronets, 
liut  this  man's  born  one,  d'you  see,  or  born  as  good  as  one  ; 
born  what  you  and  I'd  give  ten  thousand  pounds  to  be 
made  this  minute.  Says  1  to  myself,  turning  the  matter 
over,  what  a  pity  to  think  there's  nothing  to  be  made,  for 
him  or  for  me,  out  of  Gascoyne's  baronetcy.  If  Gascoyne 
was  younger,  says  I,  and  better  brought  up,  he  might  have 
made  money  out  of  it  by  marrying  an  heiress.  But  he's 
married  already,  and  the  old  lady's  not  likely  to  die  ;  or,  if 
she  did,  he's  not  marketable  now  ;  he's  too  old  and  too 
simple.  Still,  there's  the  boy — there's  the  boy  Paul. 
He's  young  and  pliable  yet  ;  clay  fresh  to  hand  ;  you  can 
make  what  you  like  of  him.  Well,  1  don't  deny  there  was 
a  touch  of  sentiment  in  it  all  ;  for  I  love  a  title  ;  but  I 
couldn't  bear  either  to  think  of  a  good  chance  being  thrown 
away ;  a  chance  of  making  money  out  of  it,  for  him  and  for 
me  ;  for  a  title  has  always  a  value  of  its  own,  and  it  goes 
against  the  grain  with  me  to  see  a  thing  that  has  a  value  of 
its  own  thrown  away,  as  it  were,  and  let  go  to  waste,  for 
want  of  a  little  temporary  employment." 

"  To  be  sure,"  his  nephew  assented  with  an  acquiescent 
nod,  for  there  he  too  could  sympathize  most  fully. 

**  So  the  idea  occurred  to  me,*"  Mr.  Solomons  went  on, 
'*  couldn't  I  lend  those  two  people  enough,  on  their  own 
notes  of  hand — three,  six,  nine,  twelve,  renewable  annually — 
to  give  the  young  man  Paul  a  thorough  good  schooling, 
and  send  him  to  Oxford,  and  make  a  gentleman  of  him." 

''But  the  security  ?**  the  younger  man  exclaimed  impa- 


70 


THE  SCALLYWAG. 


tiently.  ••  The  security  ?  ihc  security  ?  Where's  your 
collateral?" 

Mr.  Solomons  Rho(>k  his  head  with  a  very  deliberate  and 
sapient  shake,  "  There's  securities  and  securities,  Leo," 
he  said,  "and  you  don't  understand  but  one  particuhir  kind 
of  'em.  I'd  as  soon  have  I'mery  (lascoyne's  paper  as  any 
landed  gentleman's  in  all  Kngland.  Anyhow  1  made  up  my 
mind  to  do  it,  and  I  did  it,  Leo  ;  that's  the  long  and  the 
short  of  it.  I  made  'em  both  insure  their  lives — the  lland- 
in-Hand,  a  capital  company — and  I've  paid  the  premiums 
myself  ever  since  ;  here's  the  receipts,  you  see,  for  the  last 
six  years,  as  proper  as  proper." 

"You've  paid  the  premiums  yourself?"  Lionel  echoed 
with  a  cunning  smile. 

*'  But  I've  made  'em  sign  for  'em,  of  course,"  his  uncle 
continued  hastily.  "I've  made  in  sign  for  'em.  They've 
covered  it  all.  And  the  bonuses  go  to  increase  the  sum 
insured,  which  balances  premiums  almost.  Here's  the 
papers — here  they  are."  And  he  fumbled  the  bundle  with 
eager  fingers. 

The  nephew  regarded  them  with  pitying  contempt. 
"What's  the  good  of  all  these?"  he  cried,  turning  them 
over  sceptically.  "  The  fellow  was  a  minor  when  he  signed 
the  lot.  I  dare  say  he's  a  minor  still,  if  it  comes  to  that. 
They've  no  legal  value." 

"  My  dear,"  the  uncle  went  on,  with  a  very  grave  face, 
"  you  think  a  great  deal  too  much  about  what's  legal,  and 
a  great  deal  too  little  about  moral  obligation  that  keeps 
alive  the  money  lending.  Yes,  he  was  a  minor,  and  he's 
a  minor  still ;  but  when  he  comes  of  age,  you  mark  my 
words,  he'll  sign  again  for  every  penny  of  the  money.  He's 
a  good  boy,  Paul,  an  honest  boy,  and  sooner  than  let  me 
lose  a  penny  of  my  advances  he'd  work  as  my  slave  to 
his  dying  day — and  him  that'll  live  to  be  a  baronet  of  the 


/\4i'i:s  AnvisiR. 


V 


ice, 

ind 

|eps 

le's 

|my 

le's 

Ime 

to 

the 


United  Kiti^dotn.  Hcsidcs,"  Mr.  Solomons  contimiod 
more  cheerfully,  •  he  knows  I've  iUtwc  a  great  deal  for 
him.  He  knows  it's  ine  that  have  made  his  fortune.  I've 
sent  him  to  school,  arul  sent  him  to  collcj^e,  and  made  a 
gentleman  of  him.  He  knows  he's  ^<>t  to  hehave  fair  and 
honest  by  me,  as  I've  behaved  i)yhiin.  lie  knows  he's  got 
to  look  out  for  money.  As  soon  as  he's  married,  and  mar- 
ried  well,  he'll  pay  me  back*  every  penny,  principal  and 
interest." 

"Suppose  he  don't  many  well  ?"  the  nephew  interposed 
with  a  provoking  smile.  "  Suppose  the  heiress  don't  choose 
to  take  him?" 

Mr.  Solomons  folded  the  notes  of  hand  and  other  docu- 
ments into  a  neat  little  bundle,  and  tied  them  up  once  mort* 
with  a  dirty  red  tape,  preparatory  to  locking  them  up  in 
the  safe  in  their  accustomed  pigeon-hole. 

•'  There's  more  heiresses  than  one  in  the  world,"  he  said 
with  a  determined  air.  *'  If  heiress  number  one  won't  rise 
to  the  fly,  heiress  number  two  will  swallow  it,  you  warrant 
you.  No,  no,  Leo  ;  don't  you  talk  to  me.  A  baronet's  worth 
his  price  in  the  market  any  day.  Young  women  don't  get 
a  My  Lady  for  nothing.  And  Paul's  been  taught  exactly 
what  he's  worth.  He  knows  it's  a  duty  he  owes  to  me  and 
he  owes  to  his  father  ;  that  jointly  and  severally  they're 
bound  to  pay  ;  and  that  to  marry  an  heiress  is  the  cheapest 
and  easiest  way  to  pay  me." 

'*  Her  money  '11  be  all  strictly  tied  up,"  the  nephew  ex- 
claimed. "  I  know  their  way,  these  landed  people,  with 
their  contracts  and  their  settlements." 

"  A  man  of  title  can  always  dictate  his  own  terms,"  the 
money-lender  answered  with  more  worldly  wisdom,  "at 
least  among  the  manufacturers.  He  can  sell  himself  for  as 
much  as  he  chooses  somewhere,  and  hang  out  for  his  price 
till  they  choose  to  pay  it." 


73  THE  SCAI.IYWAG, 

Mr.  Lionel  Rave  a  Rrunt  of  extreme  dissatisfaction. 
•'  Well,  it's  no  business  of  mine,  of  course,"  he  obscrveii  in 
a  distinct  bad  liiimor.  "  lUit  what  I  say  is  this:  you'd  ^o\. 
no  right  ever  to  be^in  upon  it.  It  aint  legitimate  trading, 
it's  too  [)recious  speculative." 

His  uncle  j{''»"^"e(l  back  at  hiir.  with  a  reproachful  look. 

'*  There'll    be   enoujjh     for   you     without    it,    Leo,"   he 


nswered 
now 


anyway,  when  I'm  jjone.  It's  all  for  you,  you 
ery  well,  that  I  slave  and  hoard.  And  I  only  wish 
you  were  such  a  young  man  as  Paul  is.  1  take  a  sort  of 
|)ridc  in  liim,  I  don't  deny.  I  only  wish  I'd  put  you  to 
college  the  same  as  him,  and  made  a  gentleman  of  you." 

"There  aint  much  to  be  made  out  of  going  to  college," 
Mr.  Lionel  replied,  picking  his  teeth  with  his  penknife. 
••  At  least,  if  you  aint  going  into  business  afterward  as  a 
British  baronet." 

"  It's  all  for  you,  Leo,"  Mr.  Solomons  repeated,  rising  to 
put  back  the  papers  in  their  places.  **  And  even  if  this 
turns  out  a  bad  speculation — which  I  don't  believe — there'll 
be  more  than  enough  for  you,  anyhow,  without  it." 


CHAPTER  IX. 


TEMPTATION, 

At  Mentone  the  sun  continued  to  shine,  and  the  world 
to  bask  in  the  joy  of  his  rays  in  spite  of  the  snow  on  Kent's 
Hill  and  the  white  fogs  that  enwrapped  the  county  of 
Surrey.  To  Paul's  great  surprise,  too,  when  once  the 
dreaded  secret  was  out,  the  burden  of  bearing  it  became 
infinitely  lessened.  He  had  shrunk  with  all  the  shyness  of 
a  sensitive  nature  from  letting  the  loungers  on  the  Prome- 
nade du  Midi  know  the  real  truth  about  his  false  position. 


TEMP  TA  now 


73 


)rld 

It's 

of 

Ithe 

Ime 

of 

le- 

m. 


He  thought  ihcy  would  fiiul  in  it  nothing  but  cause  for 
veiled  riilicule.  lUit,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  on  that  very 
evening  the  in(l(;faligal)lc  Arniita);c,  pursuing  his  quest 
through  every  villa  he  knew  in  town,  discovered  at  last  in 
a  friend's  library  a  copy  of  hcbielt's  invaluable  work  on 
the  people  whom  one  can  really  know,  don't  you  know,  in 
Kngland.  Turning  over  the  pages  with  a  triumphant  hand^ 
to  put  to  rout  and  confusion  this  absurd  scallywag  with  his 
cock-and-bull-story  about  his  line  relations,  Armitage  was 
fairly  tliimfoutulcd  to  come  upon  the  entry,  "  CrAscovNK, 
Sir  Emk.rv,  14th  baronet,"  followed  by  half  a  page  of  the 
usual  profoundly  interesting  genealogicalcletail,  and  ending 
with  the  final  abrupt  but  concise  information,  "AV./jV;/^^, 
Plovvden's  Court,  liillborough,  Surrey." 

'I'he  IMowden's  Court  of  real  life  was  a  narrow  entry  off 
the  main  street  of  the  sleepy  little  country  town,  but  the 
Plowden's  Court  which  these  words  naturally  conjured  up 
before  Armitage's  fancy,  seen  in  such  a  connection,  was  a 
stately  and  dignified  Elizabethan  mansion,  standing  in  its 
own  grounds  of  heaven  knows  how  many  statute  acres,  and 
surrounded  by  garden,  lawn,  and  park-lands. 

Armitage  rubbed  his  eyes  in  blank  amazement.  Was  it 
possible,  then,  that  the  scallywag  had  spoken  the  truth  ?  In 
spite  of  all  appearances  to  the  contrary,  was  he  really  the 
heir  to  a  baronetcy  of  Charles  II.'s  creation,  and  to  the 
noblest  estate  in  the  county  of  Pembroke  ? 

He  glanced  through  the  profoundly  interesting  genea- 
logical details  with  a  curious  eye.  Yes,  that  was  all 
plain  sailing  enough.  "  Succeeded  his  second  cousin.  Sir 
Emery  Charles  Emeric  Gascoyne,  13th  baronet,  vide  infra'* 
Armitage  proceeded  to  vide  infra  accordingly,  and  noticed 
at  once  that  the  name  of  Paul  seemed  to  alternate  regularly 
throughout  the  list  with  the  name  of  Emery  as  the  distinc- 
tive mark  of  the  Gascoyne  baronetcy.     So  far,  clearly,  the 


74 


THE   SCALLVIVAC. 


i 


scallywag's  story  seemed  to  hold  together  much  better 
than  he  expected.  And  next  as  to  the  estates  ?  Not  a 
word  said  about  them,  Lo  be  sure  ;  but  then,  the  respected 
and  esteemed  Debrett  deals  only  in  exalted  rank,  and  has 
nothing  to  say  on  such  inferior  subjects  as  filthy  lucre. 
•'  Residence^  Plowden  Court,  Hillborougli  !  "  Fancy  the 
scallywag  coming  after  all  from  a  baronial  mansion  in  the 
county  of  Surrey  ! 

Next  day  the  entire  little  world  of  Mentone  had  duly 
digested  the  singular  news  that  the  unobtrusive  Oxford 
undergraduate  who  had  come  out  to  the  Riviera,  strictly 
incog,,  as  tutor  to  the  blond  young  man  at  the  Continental, 
was  really  the  heir  to  a  baronetcy,  in  disguise,  and  the 
scion  of  a  distinguished  Pembrokeshire  family. 

And  all  the  world  remarked  at  once,  with  its  usual  acute- 
ness,  that,  in  spite  of  his  shyness,  they  had  said  from  the 
first  I*aul  Gascoyne  was  a  delightful  young  man,  and  had 
most  charming  manners. 

All  the  world,  indeed,  has  always  divined  these  things 
beforehand,  and  is  immensely  surprised  at  all  the  rest  of 
the  world's  stupidity  in  not  having  perceived  them. 

Three  days  later,  however,  at  the  usual  little  conclave  in 
the  Jardin-Public — The  School  for  Scandal,  Mme.  Ceriolo 
christened  the  particular  corner  affected  by  Armitage  and 
his  group  of  intimates — that  ardent  inquirer  came  down 
quite  triumphant  with  a  letter  in  his  hand.  **  After  all,"  he 
said,  as  he  seated  himself,  with  a  comprehensive  nod,  on 
his  favorite  bench,  "  it  turns  out  the  .scallywag's  nobody 
much.  I've  just  had  a  line  from  my  friend  Rimington  at 
Hipsley,  near  Hillborough,  and  he  says,  though  the  lad's 
supposed  to  be  heir  to  a  baronetcy,  his  father's  a  fellow 
in  a  very  small  way  of  business  ;  reasons  of  delicacy,  he 
writes,  prevent  him  frcm  particularizing  further,  and  not  at 
all  in  society,  or  anything  like  it,  in   Surrey.     It  seems  the 


TEMPTATI0A\ 


75 


re  m 
sriolo 
and 
Hown 
."  he 
on 
)ocly 
|)n  at 
lad's 
lUow 
r,  he 
)t  at 
the 


grandfather  of  the  present  baronet  was  a  very  bad  lot,  a 
scapegrace  of  low  habits,  who  consorted  chiefly  with 
grooms  or  stable  boys,  and  married  a  milkmaid  or  some 
thing  of  the  sort  ;  no  doubt  after  circumstances  which,  as 
Herodotus  says,  it  is  not  lawful  to  mention  ;  after  which 
he  was  very  properly  cut  off  by  his  papa,  the  baronet  of  the 
time,  with  the  traditional  shilling.  With  that  modest  capi- 
tal, as  his  whole  start  in  life,  tlte  scallywinr's  ancestor  set 
up  in  town,  and  there  iiis  descendants,  living  on  the  change 
for  the  shilling,  1  suppose,  went  from  bad  to  worse,  till  the 
present  man  has  sunk  jiractically  to  the  level  of  the  work- 
ing classes.  When  old  Sir  Kmery — whom  I  knew  in  Pem- 
brokeshire— popped  off  the  hooks,  some  six  or  seven  years 
ago,  he  entirely  ignored  this  debased  stock — they'd  inter- 
married, meanwhile,  with  cooks  or  scullery  maids — and  left 
the  estates  at  Gascoyne  Manor,  and  elsewhere,  to  a  younger 
branch,  who  had  always  kept  up  their  position  as  gentle- 
men. So  the  scallywag's  papa's  only  a  bare  courtesy  baro- 
net after  all  ;  by  birth  and  education  the  scallywag  himself 
is — well,  just  what  you'd  expect  him  to  be.  Rimington 
says  in  a  postcript,"  Armitage  went  on,  glancing  around 
him  with  an  air  of  virtuous  self-abnegation,  "  he  hopes  I 
won't  mention  these  facts  to  anyone,  for  young  Gascoyne's 
sake  ;  so  I'm  sure  I  can  count  upon  all  oi you  not  to  breathe 
a  word  of  it,  or  to  let  it  make  the  very  slightest  difference 
in  any  way  in  your  treatment  of  the  scallywag." 

Mme  Ceriolo,  raising  a  pair  of  dove-like  eyes,  saw  her 
chance  to  score  a  point.  '*  But  he  really  is  the  heir  to  a 
baronetcy,  in  spite  of  everything,  you  see,"  she  put  in  lan- 
guidly. "  That's  very  satisfactory.  When  people  who  are 
born  of  noble  blood  happen  to  be  poor,  or  to  be  placed  in 
any  dependent  position,  other  people  often  cast  most  un- 
justifiable doubts  upon  the  truth  of  what  they  say  about 
their   own   families.     I    sympathize   with   Mr.  Gascoyne." 


76 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


And  she  glanced  down  with  a  meaning  look  at  the  coun- 
tess' coronet  engraved  on  the  plain  silver  locket  she  wore 
at  her  bosom. 

"He'll  be  a  Sir,  though,  anyway,  won't  he?"  Isabel 
Boyton  asked,  going  straight  to  the  point  with  true  Ameri- 
can business  perception. 

"  He'll  be  a  Sir,  anyway.  Miss  Boyton,"  Armitage  retorted 
sharply.  *'  And  he'll  make  his  wife,  when  he  catches  one, 
into  a  real  My  Lady." 

"  For  my  part,"  Nea  Blair  put  in  with  quiet  firmness,  "  I 
don't  care  a  pin  whether  he's  heir  to  a  baronetcy  or  whether 
he's  not.  I  take  him  for  himself.  I  think  he's  a  very  nice, 
good,  sensible  young  man,  and,  whoever  his  parents  are, 
he's  a  born  gentleman." 

"  One  ol  Nature's  gentlemen  !  "  Mme.  Ceriolo  interjected 
lackadaisically,  with  a  darted  glance  from  her  tortoiseshell 
eyeglasses  at  Armitage,  who,  playing  with  his  button,  and 
feeling  the  sense  of  the  meeting  was  entirely  with  the 
scallywag,   retired    gracefully    upon  a  safe   commonplace. 

"After  all,  it  doesn't  so  much  matter  what  a  man's  father 
is  as  what  he  is  himself — except,  of  course,  for  purposes  of 
probate." 

So  in  the  end,  as  it  turned  out,  the  world  of  Mentone 
agreed  to  accept  Paul  Gascoyne  with  a  very  good  grace  as 
a  future  baronet,  and  to  invite  him  freely  to  the  afternoon 
teas  and  mild  "  at  homes "  which  form  the  staple  of  its 
innocent  invalidish  entertainments.  A  baronet  is  a  baronet, 
if  it  comes  to  that,  be  he  more  or  less,  as  the  lawyers  would 
gracefully  put  it ;  and  a  barone.'s  son  who  has  been  to 
Oxford,  no  matter  how  poor,  has  always  a  possible  future 
open  before  him.  Nay,  more,  the  mere  fact  of  the  little 
mystery  as  to  his  origin,  and  the  whispered  story  about  the 
lady's  maid  and  the  dubious  grandmamma,  added  just  a 
touch  of  romance  to  the  whole  affair  which  made  up  in 


TEMTTATIOl^, 


77 


)ne 

as 

)on 

its 

let, 

lid 

to 

lire 

Itle 

Ihe 

a 

lin 


piquancy  for  whatever  Paul  lacked  in  exterior  adornment. 
If  there's  anything  odd  about  a  man's  antecedents  (and  still 
more  about  a  woman's)  it's  a  mere  toss-up  whether  Society 
chooses  to  pet  him  or  damn  him.  But  when  once  Society 
has  made  up  its  mind  to  accept  him,  it  becomes  forthwith  a 
point  of  honor  to  stick  up  for  him  at  all  risks,  and  to  see  in 
him  nothing  but  the  most  consimimate  virtues.  The  very 
oddity  is  held  to  constitute  a  distinction.  In  point  of  fact, 
accordingly,  Paul  Gascoyne  became  the  fashion  at  Men- 
tone,  And  having  once  attained  that  proud  position,  as 
the  small  tame  lion  of  a  provincial  show,  everybody,  of 
course,  discovered  in  him  at  once  unsuspected  mines  of 
learning  or  talent,  and  agreed  unanimously  over  five  o'clock 
tea-tables  that  young  Gascoyne  was  really  a  most  charming 
and  interesting  person. 

The  consequence  was  that  for  the  next  six  weeks  Paul 
saw  a  good  deal  of  society  at  Mentone— more,  in  fact,  than 
he  had  ever  seen  of  that  commodity  anywhere  in  his  life 
before,  and  among  it  of  Nea  Blair  and  Isabel  Boytcn. 

Nea  he  liked  and  admired  immensely.  And  with  good 
reason.  For  it  was  the  very  first  time  he  had  ever  hod  the 
opportunity  of  meeting  an  educated  English  lady  and  con- 
versinj  with  her  on  equal  terms  about  subjects  that  both 
could  alike  discourse  of.  He  was  always  flattered  when 
Nea  talked  to  him  ;  the  subtle  delight  of  finding  one's  self 
able  to  hold  one's  own  fairly  with  a  beautiful  and  clever 
woman  moved  him  strangely.  Hitherto  he  had  only  seen 
and  admired  such  beings  from  afar.  To  stand  face  to  face 
with  Nea  Blair  and  find  that  she  did  not  disdain  to  talk  with 
him — nay,  that  she  evidently  preferred  his  society  to 
Thistleton's  or  Armitage's — was  to  the  shy  young  man  from 
Plowden's  Court  a  positive  revelation  of  delight  and  glad- 
ness. It  is  to  be  feared  that  he  even  neglected  Aristotle's 
Ethics  and  his  duty  to  Mr.  Solomons,  more  than  once,  in 


7« 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


his  readiness  to  go  where  Nea  Blair  might  possibly  meet 
him.  He  paid  for  it  afterward  in  qualms  of  conscience,  to 
be  sure  ;  but,  as  long  as  it  lasted,  it  was  perfect  bliss  to 
him. 

Not  that  he  believed  or  knew  he  was  falling  in  love  with 
Nea.  If  that  explanation  of  his  mental  phenomena  had 
ever  occurred  to  his  honest  soul,  I'aul  would  have  felt  that 
those  mysterious  claims  which  weighed  on  him  so  heavily 
made  it  (juite  necessary  for  him  to  see  as  little  as  possible 
of  the  fair  enchantress.  He  knew  he  was  bound  by  solemn 
bond  and  pact  to  Mr.  Solomons  to  sell  himself  finally  in  the 
matrimonial  market  for  hard  cash  to  the  highest  bidder  ; 
and  though  even  then  uncomfortable  doubts  as  to  the  jus- 
tice or  morality  of  such  a  proceeding  sometimes  forced 
themselves  obtrusively  upon  Paul's  mind,  while  the  day  of 
sale  seemed  still  so  far  off,  he  would,  nevertheless,  have 
shrunk  from  letting  himself  get  entangled  in  any  other  bond 
which  might  prove  adverse  in  the  end  to  Mr.  Solomons' 
fair  chance  of  repayment.  After  all,  he  thought  casuisti- 
cally  to  himself,  there  was  always  a  possibility  that  he  might 
finally  happen  to  fall  in  love  with  some  nice  girl  who  was 
also  the  heiress  Mr.  Solomons  dreamed  about  ;  and  then,  in 
that  case— but  there  he  broke  down  The  nearer  he  drew 
to  the  actual  fact  and  pact  of  marriage  the  more  repugnant 
did  the  whole  wild  scheme  appear  to  him. 

One  sunny  afternoon,  a  week  or  two  later,  the  whole 
little  coterie  of  the  Rives  d'Or  had  made  an  excursion 
together  on  to  the  rocky  hills  that  bound  either  side  of  the 
mule-path  to  Castellar.  When  they  reached  the  ridge 
where  great  rounded  bosses  of  ice-worn  sandstone  form  a 
huge  hog's  back  overlooking  the  twin-valleys  to  right  and 
left,  they  dispersed  by  twos  and  threes,  as  men  and 
maidens  will  do,  among  the  rosemary  bushes  and  the 
scanty  umbrella-pines,  or   sat  down  in   groups   upon   the 


TEMP  TA  TmjV. 


79 


)le 
Ion 


bare,  smooth  rocks,  in  full  view  of  the  sea  ^nd  the  jagged 
summit  of  the  gigantic  Berceau.  Paul  foiiiul  himself  quite 
unconsciously  wandering  among  the  low  lenlisk  scrub  with 
Nea  Blair,  and,  seating  themselves  at  last  on  the  edge  of 
the  slope,  with  the  lemons  gleaming  yellow  in  the  Carei 
Valley  far  below  their  feet,  they  discoursed  together,  as 
youths  and  maidens  discourse,  of  heaven  and  earth  and  fate 
and  philosophy,  but  more  particularly  of  their  own  two 
selves,  with  that  profound  interest  which  youth  and  a  free 
heart  always  lend  to  that  entrancing  subject  when  dis- 
cussed ^  deux,  under  the  spreading  shade  of  a  romantic 
pine  tree. 

"And  when  you've  taken  your  degeee,  what  then  ?"  Xea 
asked  with  some  eagerness  after  Paul  had  duly  enlightened 
her  mind  as  to  the  precise  period  of  his  Greats  examina. 
tion,  and  the  chances  for  and  against  his  obtaining  a  First 
in  that  arduous  undertaking. 

'*  Well,  then,"  Paul  answered  with  some  little  embarrass- 
ment, "after  that,  I  suppose  I  must  go  in  for  a  fellowship." 

"  But  if  you  get  a  fellowship  you  won't  be  able  to  marry, 
will  you?"  Nea  inquired  with  interest.  "Haven't  they 
got  some  horribly  barbarous  rule  at  Oxford  that  if  a  fellow 
marries  he  must  lose  his  position  ?  " 

"No,  no;  not  now,"  Paul  answered,  smiling.  '■'•CtHait 
autrefois  ainsi,  mais  nous  avons  chan}:^e  tout  cela,  as  Sganarelle 
says  in  the  play.     A  fellowship  now  is  for  ..i  fixed  period." 

"  Well,  that's  well,  anyhow,"  Nea  went  on,  more  easily. 
"I  hope,  Mr.  Gascoyne,  you'll  get  your  fellows'  ip." 

"Thank  you,"  Paul  replied.  "  That's  very  kind  o;  you. 
But  I'm  ashamed  of  having  bored  you  with  all  this  talk 
about  my.t^elf — the  subject  upvui  which,  as  somebody  once 
put  it,  all  men  are  fluent  and  none  agreeable." 

"  The  somebody  was  wrong,  then,"  Nea  answered,  with 
decision,     "  Whenever  one  meets  an  interesting  individu- 


8o 


THE    SCAI.I.  YWAG. 


ality  one  wants  to  know  as  tiiuch  as  possible  about  it. 
Don't  yon  think,"  and  she  looked  up  at  him  with  her 
charming  smile,  *'  in  our  society  nowadays  we  never 
really  get  to  know  half  enough  about  one  another?" 

•*  I  know  nothing  about  society,"  I'aul  replied  frankly. 
'*  I've  never  been  in  it.  I've  had  no  chance.  But  I  think 
in  as  much  of  the  world  as  I  know — which  is  a  very  tiny 
world  indeed — we  do  somehow  seem  to  go  round  and 
round,  like  the  people  in  the  maze  at  Hampton  Court,  and 
never  get  at  the  heart  and  core  one  of  the  other." 

Dangerous  ground,  dangerous  ground,  dear  Paul,  for 
Mr.  Solomons'  chance  of  recovering  in  full  on  that  long 
investment. 

Nea  felt  it  so,  perhaps,  for  she  paused  a  moment,  and 
examined  a  little  pink  rock-cistus  thjit  sprang  from  a  cleft 
in  the  sandstone  at  her  feet  with  unnecessarily  close  atten- 
tion for  anyone  who  was  not  a  professed  botanist.  Then 
she  said  st^ddenly,  as  if  with  a  burst  of  inspiration,  '*  I 
shall  be  up  in  Oxford  myself,  I  expect,  next  summer- 
term.  Mrs.  Douglas,  the  wife  of  the  Accadian  professor — 
at  Magdalen,  you  know — means  to  ask  me  up  for  the 
Eights  or  something." 

"  That'll  be  just  delightful  !  "  Paul  answered  warmly. 
"  We  shall  have  some  chance  then  of  really  getting  to 
know  one  another." 

"I  always  like  Oxford,"  Nea  murmured,  looking  down, 
and  half  afraid  the  conversation  was  leading  her  too  far. 

"I  just  love  every  inch  of  it,"  Paul  replied  with  fervor. 
"  But  then  I've  much  reason  to  be  grateful  to  Oxford.  I 
owe  it  everything." 

"You'll  live  there  when  you're  a  fellow? "  Nea  asked, 
looking  up  again. 

Paul  hesitated  a  second,  and  pulled  grasses  in  his  turn. 
"I've  got  to  get  my  fellowship  first,"  he  said   with  some 


TE.\rPTAriOS\ 


gl 


m, 
r. 

I 

:n. 


reserve.  *'  And  then — and  then  1  suppose  I  must  do  some- 
thing or  other  to  make  some  money.  I  have  heavy  claims 
upon  me." 

"  Oh,  dear  I  wh.it  a  pity  !  "  Nea  cried  with  genuine 
regret. 

"Why  so,  Miss  Hlair?" 

"  Because  it's  so  dreadful  you  should  have  to  enter  the 
world  with  claims,  whatever  they  may  be,  to  clog  y<ju.  If 
you  were  free  to  choose  your  own  walk  in  life,  you  know, 
you  might  do  such  wonders." 

"1  should  like  literature,"  Paul  went  en,  relapsing  once 
more  into  that  egoistic  vein.  "  Hut,  of  course,  that's  im- 
possible." 

"Why  impossible  ?  "  Nea  asked  quickly. 

"  Because  nobody  can  make  money  at  literature  nowa- 
days,"  Paul  answered  with  a  sigh  ;  "  and  my  circumstances 
are  such  that  it's  absolutely  necessary  before  everything 
else  1  should  make  money,  and  make  it  quickly.  I  must 
sacrifice  everything  to  my  chance  of  making  money." 

"  I  see,"  Nea  answered  with  a  faint  tinge  of  displeasure 
in  her  tone.  And  she  thought  to  herself  "  Perhaps  he 
means  he  must  get  rich  so  as  to  keep  up  the  dignity  of  the 
title.  If  so,  I'm  really  and  truly  sorry  ;  for  I  thought  he 
had  a  great  deal  better  stuff  than  that  in  him.' 

"  There  are  so  many  claims  1  have  to  satisf',"  Paul  went 
on  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  answering  her  inmost  unspoken 
thought.  '*  My  time  s  not  my  own.  It's  somebody's  else- 
I've  mortgaged  it  all  by  anticipation." 

Nea  gave  a  start. 

"Then  you're  engaged,"  she  said,  putting  the  obvious 
feminine  interpretation  upon  his  ambiguous  sentence.  (A 
woman  reads  everything  by  the  light  of  her  cwn  world — 
courtship  and  marriage.) 

**  Oh,   no,"    Paul    answered,   smiling.     "  I    d'dn't   mean 


«2 


THE   SCALIYWAG. 


that,  or  anything  like  it.  I  wouldn't  mind  that.  It  was 
sometliing  much  more  serious.  I  start  in  life  with  a  grave 
burden." 


CHAPTKR  X. 


THK    IIKIRKSS    IS    WII.l.lNO. 


<( 


Say,  Mr.  (iascoyne,"  Isabel  Boyton  exclaimed,  catch- 
ing  him  up,  breathless, on  the  Promenade  du  Midi,  one  day 
in  the  last  week  of  Paul's  stay  at  Mentone  ;  "  Will  you 
come  and  ride  with  us  over  to  La  Mortola  to-morrow  ?" 

**  I'm  sorry,"  Paul  answered,  smiling  at  her  free  Penn- 
sylvanian  mode  of  address,  "but  I've  no  horse  to  ride 
upon." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  ride  horseback,"  Isabel  exclaimed 
promptly.  "  Mamma  and  I  have  chartered  a  kahrriage — a 
break,  I  think  you  call  it  over  I. ere  in  Europe — and  we're 
taking  a  party  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  across  to  see  the 
gardens." 

"  I  shall  be  delighted  to  go,"  Paul  answered  truthfully — 
for  Nea  would  be  there,  he  knew,  and  he  went  accordingly. 

At  La  Mortola,  however,  he  soon  found  out  that  Miss 
Isabel  meant  to  keep  him  all  for  herself,  and,  indeed,  that 
she  stuck  to  him  with  creditable  persistence.  This  was  a 
very  new  sensation  for  Paul,  who  had  never  been  made  so 
much  of ;  but  he  accepted  it  as  youth  accepts  almost  every- 
thing— with  the  frank  delight  of  a  new  experience. 

And  how  charming  it  was,  that  drive  across  to  La  Mor- 
tola, with  the  hot  southern  afternoon  sun  beating  full  upon 
the  hills  !  Bordighera  gleaming  white  upon  its  seaward 
point,  and  Cap  Martin  behind  bathed  in  broad  floods  of 
glorious  sunshine  !  How  Grimaldi  shone  among  its  silvery 
olives  ;  how  the   spires  of  Mentone  rose  tall  and  slender 


THf    HEIRESS  IS    li'/E/ fXG. 


8.? 


|ur- 

\oi\ 

lid 

of 

kry 
ler 


in  the  glistening  backgmimd  I  At  the  deep  dark  k^^K^ 
spanned  by  the  Tont  St,  Louis  they  crossed  the  frontier, 
and  Paul  found  himself  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  on  the 
soil  of  Italy.  Past  the  Italian  custoin  house  and  the  old 
Saracen  tower  in  Dr.  Pcnnett's  garden,  they  wound  along 
the  ledge  to  the  corner  by  La  Mortola  ;  and  then  they 
skirted  a  deep  rocky  ravine,  all  in  darkest  shade,  with  green 
pines  cland)ering  up  its  steep  sides,  till  they  hailed  against 
a  broken  cliff  near  the  summit.  At  last  they  reached  those 
marvelous  hanging  gardens,  hewn  out  of  the  bare  rock, 
where  feathery  African  palms  and  broad  leaved  tropical 
vegetation  bask  in  the  hot  sun  as  on  their  native  deserts. 
There  thev  descended  and  wandered  about  at  will,  for  it 
was  a  •'  free  day,"  and  Isabel  Hoyton,  taking  possession  of 
Paul,  walked  him  off  alone,  with  American  coolness,  to  a 
seat  that  overhung  the  villa  and  the  sea,  with  a  view  along 
the  coast  for  a  hundred  miles  from  San  Remo  to  Toulon. 

•'  You  go  back  ne.xt  week,"  she  said  at  once  after  an  awk- 
ward pause,  when  Paul  had  found  nothing  more  to  say  to 
her,  for  he  talked  far  less  freely  with  the  heiress  than  with 
Nea  Blair. 

*'  Yes  :  I  go  back  next  week,"  Paul  repeated  vaguely. 

''  To  Oxford  ?" 

•'  To  Oxford." 

"  We  shall  miss  you  so  at  Mentone,"  the  Pennsylvanian 
went  on  with  genuine  regret.  "You  see,  we're  so  short- 
handed  for  gentlemen,  aint  we  ?  " 

"  You're  very  kind,"  Paul  murmured,  much  abashed  by 
this  frank  remark.  '*  But  perhaps  somebody  else  will  come 
who'll  do  as  well — or  better." 

"  What's  a  good  time  to  come  and  see  O'liord  in  ? "  Isabel 
asked  abruptly,  without  heeding  his  remark,  but  gazing 
with  a  vacant  expression  seaward. 

"  Summer  term's  the  best  for  visitors,"  Paul  answered, 


84 


TltE   SCAll.YW'AG. 


takt'i)  aback.     "  I  should  say  about  the  tweutieth  of  May, 
for  example." 


«i 


Perhaps  I'll  fetch  luamina  along  aiul  have  a  look  at  it 
then,"  the  goltleiNhaiied  American  contiiuieil,  playing  nerv- 
ously with  her  parasol.  "  We  C(njUl  have  a  good  time  at 
Oxford  about  May,  could  we  ?  " 

*'  I'd  do  my  best  to  help  you  enjoy  yourself,"  Paul  replied, 
as  in  duty  bound,  but  with  a  sinking  rec(illcction  that  just 
about  that  precise  date  he  woulil  be  straining  every  nerve 
for  his  final  examination. 

"  I  call  that  real  nice  of  you,"  Isabel  replied,  still  poking 
her  parasol  into  the  ground  by  her  side.  "  Will  you  take 
us  about  and  show  us  the  College,  the  same  as  we  read 
about  it  in  '  Tom  Brown  at  Oxford  '  ?" 

"  The  University's  changed  a  good  deal  since  those  d.iys," 
Paul  replied  with  a  smile,  "but  I  shall  be  glad  to  do  what- 
ever I  can  to  make  your  visit  a  pleasant  one.  'I'hough 
Thistleton,"  he  added,  after  a  short  pause,  "  would  be  able 
to  show  you  a  great  deal  more  about  the  place  than  I  can." 

The  Pennsylvanian  brought  back  her  clear  blue  eyes 
from  space  with  a  sudden  flash  upon  him.  "  Why  ?  "  she 
asked  curtly. 

"  Because  he's  so  much  richer,"  Paul  answered,  boldly 
shaming  the  devil.  '*  He's  a  member  of  all  the  clubs  and 
sports  and  everything.  His  father's  one  of  the  wealthiest 
men  in  Sheffield." 

Isabel  drew  a  face  with  her  parasol  on  the  gravel  below. 
"  I  don't  care  a  pin  for  that,"  she  answered  shortly. 

"  I  suppose  not.  You're  so  rich  yourself,"  Paul  retorted 
with  a  sigh.  Then  he  turned  the  subject  clumsily.  "  These 
are  lovely  gardens." 

"  My  poppa  could  buy  up  a  place  like  this  with  a 
month's  income,"  the  young  lady  answered,  refusing  to 
follow  the  false  trail.     She  said  it,  not  with  any  vulgar, 


THE  urihess  is  int j.fxa. 


85 


ow. 

ted 
ese 

a 

to 

lar, 


boastful  air,  but  simply  as  if  to  put  hiiu  in  possession  of  the 
facts  of  the  case.  She  wanted  him  to  know  her  exact 
position. 

••  Why  isn't  he  here  with  you?"  I'aul  ventured  to  ask, 
just  to  keep  the  conversational  ball  rolling. 

•*  Oh,  my  I  "  Isabel  exclainuHl.  "What  a  cjuestion  to 
ask  '  NVhy,  he's  got  to  stay  at  home  and  mind  the  store,  of 
course,  like  every  other  man,  hasn't  he  ?  " 

"  lie's  in  business  then  !  "  I'aul  said,  with  a  start  of  sur- 
prise. 

'*  In  my  country,"  Isabel  answered  gravely,  "  it  aint 
respectable  not  to  be  in  business.  My  poppa's  the  richest 
man  in  IMiiladelphia."  Then  she  looked  down  at  her 
shoes  and  added  once  more,  "  Hut  I  don't  care  a  pin  about 
money  myself,  for  all  that.  What  I  care  for  is  whether 
people  are  nice  or  not.  And  I  like  Mr.  Ihistleton  well 
enough  in  a  sort  of  a  way  ;  he's  quite  nice,  of  course,  and 
there's  nothing  grubby  about  him.  Hut  he  kind  of  don't 
take  me." 

"No?"  l*aul  said,  feeling  he  was  called  upon  to  say 
something. 

**  No,"  Isabel  answered.  "  He  don't,"  and  then  relapsed 
into  strange  silence. 

For  a  moment  or  two  they  sat  with  their  eyes  fixed  on 
the  ground,  and  neither  spoke  a  single  word  to  the  other. 
Then  Isabel  began  once  more,  just  to  encourage  him  a  bit, 
for  she  misinterpreted  his  awkwardness  and  shyness — **  It 
is  a  /ovely  place.  I'm  most  inclined  to  make  my  poppa 
give  up  the  States  and  come  across  to  reside  for  a  perman- 
ence in  some  elegant  place  like  this  in  Europe." 

"Your  father  would  come  if  you  wished  him  then?" 
Paul  asked,  all  trembling  with  excitement,  for  he  dimly 
s  "spected  he  was  neglecting  his  duty  (and  Mr.  Solomons' 
interests)  in  the  most  culpable  manner. 


.1 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-S) 


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140    12.0 


m 


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i 

M 

1.6 


% 


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WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  S72-4S03 


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qv 


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:\ 


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>*:.<- 


5 
► 


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o"^ 


86 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


Isabel  noticed  his  tremulous  voice,  and  answered  in  the 
softest  tones  she  could  command  : 

"  He'd  do  anything  most  to  make  me  happy." 

"  Indeed,"  Paul  replied,  and  gazed  once  more  with  a  pre- 
occupied  air  toward  tlie  distant  Esterels.  They  came  out 
so  clear  against  the  blue  horizon. 

"  Yes,  poppa  just  spoils  me,"  Isabel  went  on  abstractedly  ; 
*'  he's  a  real  good  poppa.  And  how  lovely  it  'd  be  to  pass 
one's  life  in  a  place  like  this,  with  all  those  glorious  moun- 
tains and  hills  around  one,  and  that  elegant  sea  tumbling 
and  shining  right  in  front  of  one's  eye — with  somebody 
that  loved  one." 

The  running  was  getting  uncomfortably  hot  now. 

•'  It  would  be  delightful,  indeed,"  Paul  echoed,  very  warm 
in  the  face,  "  if  only  one  had  got  the  money  to  do  it 
with." 

Isabel  waited  a  moment  again  with  downcast  eyes  ;  but 
her  neighbor  seemed  disinclined  to  continue  the  cjnversa- 
tion.  And  to  think  he  had  the  power  to  make  any  woman 
My  Lady  !  She  paused  and  looked  long  at  him.  Then  she 
rose  at  last  with  a  stifled  sigh.  He  was  real  nice,  she 
thought,  this  British  baronet's  son,  and  he  trembled  a 
good  bit,  and  felt  like  proposing,  but  he  couldn't  just  make 
up  his  mind  right  away  on  the  spot  to  say  what  he  wanted. 
English  young  men  are  so  absurdly  awkward. 

"  Well,  we  shall  meet  at  Oxford,  anyway,"  she  said 
lightly,  moving  down  toward  the  shore.  "  Let's  get  alo.'g 
and  see  what  those  great  red  plants  on  the  rocks  are,  Mr. 
Gascoyne.  I  expect  by  this  time  mamma  '11  be  looking 
out  for  me." 

Paul  went  home  to  the  Continental  that  night  with  a 
terrible  consciousness  of  neglected  duty.  Modest  as  he 
was,  he  couldn't  even  pretend  to  conceal  from  himself  the 
obvious   fact  that  the   golden-haired   Pennsylvanian   had 


THE  HRIRF.SS  /S    lyilJ.IXC. 


87 


exhibited  a  marked  preference  fo»  his  conversation  and 
society.  He  fancied  she  almost  expected  him  to  propose 
to  her.  And,  indeed,  the  idea  was  not  wholly  of  his  own 
suggestion,  Thistleton,  retailing  the  common  gossip  of 
the  Promenade  du  Midi,  had  more  than  once  annonnced  the 
firm  belief  that  Tan!  might  have  '*  the  Yankee  girl  for  the 
asking."  And  Paul,  himself  much  inclined  to  underrate  his 
own  powers  of  attraction,  could  not,  nevertheless,  deny  in  his 
own  soul  the  patent  evidences  that  Isabel  Boyton,  for  all  her 
wealth,  was  fully  susceptible  to  the  charms  of  a  British 
baronetcy. 

He  stood  at  last  face  to  face  in  earnest  with  a  great 
difficulty. 

Could  he  or  could  he  not  carry  out  his  compact  ? 

As  he  sat  by  himself  in  his  room  at  the  Continental  that 
night,  he  thought  it  all  over,  how  it  had  gradually  grown 
up  step  by  step  from  the  very  beginning.  It  seemed  so 
natural,  every  bit  of  it,  to  him,  who  had  grown  up  with 
it  himself,  as  a  sort  of  religion.  So  strange  to  anyone  else 
who  heard  it  only  for  the  first  time  now  as  a  completed 
transaction. 

For  six  years  past  and  more,  his  father  and  mother  and 
Mr.  Solomons — the  three  great  authorities  that  framed  his 
life  for  him — had  impressed  it  upon  him  as  the  first  article 
of  his  practical  creed,  that  he  was  to  grow  up  a  gentleman 
and  marry  an  heiress. 

To  us,  what  an  ignoble  aim  it  seems  !  but  on  Paul  it  had 
always  been  enforced  for  years  by  all  the  sanctions  of 
parental  wisdom  and  commercial  honesty  as  the  supreme 
necessity.  He  was  indebted  to  Mr.  Solomons  for  his 
schooling,  and  his  clothing,  and  his  Oxford  education  ;  and 
the  way  he  was  bound  to  repay  Mr.  Solomons  was  to  follow 
instructions  to  the  very  letter  and  marry  an  heiress.  His 
stock-in-trade  in  life  was  his  prospective  title,  and  he  was 


h  1 


m 


n 


8a 


THE    SCALLYWAG. 


to  sell  that  commodity^n  accordance  with  recognized  com- 
mercial maxims,  in  the  dearest  market. 

And  yet,  strange  to  say,  Paul  (lascoyne  himself  was  not 
mercenary.  He  had  passively  accepted  the  rdle  in  life,  as 
most  young  men  passively  accept  the  choice  of  a  profession 
made  for  them  by  their  parent,  without  thinking  very  much, 
one  way  or  the  other,  as  to  either  its  morality  or  its  feasi- 
bility. He  was  so  young  when  Mr.  Solomons  first  hit  upon 
his  grand  scheme  for  utilizing  the  reversion  to  a  British 
baronetcy — no  more  than  fourteen — that  he  had  got  the 
•dea  thoroughly  dinned  into  his  head  long  before  he  was 
able  to  recognize  in  all  its  naked  hideousness  the  base  and 
sordid  side  of  that  hateful  compact.  Solomons  had  sup- 
plied him  with  money  from  time  to  time — not  liberally,  to 
be  sure,  for  he  did  not  wish  to  make  his /;'<7/^<*' extravagant, 
but  in  sufficient  quantities  for  the  simple  needs  and  wants 
of  a  scallywag;  and  Paul  had  accepted  the  money,  giving 
in  return  his  worthless  notes  of  hand,  as  youth  always 
accepts  its  livelihood  from  its  accustomed  purveyors,  with- 
out much  care  or  thought  as  to  the  right  or  wrong  of  the 
customary  supplies. 

And  then,  there  had  been  so  much  besides  to  distract  his 
attention  from  the  abstract  question  of  the  ethics  of  mar- 
riage. He  was  occupied  sc;  much  with  reading  for  the 
schools,  and  taking  pupils  in  his  spare  time  to  help  eke  out 
his  scanty  income  ;  for  he  felt  deeply  what  a  drain  he  had 
always  made  on  the  family  resources,  and  how  much  his 
father  was  beginning  to  stand  in  need  of  a  son's  assistance 
in  the  management  of  his  business.  The  question  of  the 
moment — the  definite  question  then  and  there  before  him 
at  each  instant  of  his  life — the  necessity  for  reading  hard 
and  taking  a  good  degree,  and  the  parallel  necessity  for 
living  at  Oxford  as  cheaply  as  even  a  scallywag  could  do 
it — had  overshadowed  and  eclipsed  that  remoter  question 


THE   HEIRESS  IS    IVILI.IMG. 


<9 


of  the  underlying  morality  of  the  whole  transaction,  which 
had  been  settled  for  him  beforehand,  as  it  were,  by  his 
father  and  Mr.  Solomons. 

Paul,  in  fact,  was  the  inheritor  of  two  arduous  heritages — 
the  barren  baronetcy,  and  Mr.  Solomons'  claims  to  prmci- 
pal  and  interest. 

Till  that  evening,  then,  though  qualms  of  conscience  had 
now  and  then  obtruded  themselves,  he  had  never  fairly  and 
squarely  faced  his  supreme  difficulty.  But,  to-night,  in  the 
solitude  of  his  room  at  the  Continental,  sitting  by  himself 
in  the  dark  (so  as  not  to  waste  his  friend  Thistlcton's 
bougies  at  a  franc  apiece,  hotel  reckoning  :  for  economy  in 
small  matters,  had  long  since  become  instinctive  with  him), 
he  turned  the  matter  over  for  the  first  time  in  his  soul  with 
the  definite  issue  clearly  before  him — could  he  or  could  he 
not  ever  conscientiously  marry  Isabel  Boyton  ? 

His  whole  soul  within  him  revolted  at  once  with  a  tem- 
pestuous No.  Now  that  the  chance  for  carrying  Mr.  Solo- 
mons' scheme  into  actual  practice  had  finally  arrived — nay, 
even  had  thrust  itself  bodily  upon  him — he  felt  at  once  the 
whole  meanness  and  baseness  of  the  entire  arrangement. 
Not  so  far  as  Mr.  Solomons  and  his  father  were  concerned — 
of  their  wisdom  and  goodness  he  could  hardly  have  per- 
mitted himself  even  now  to  entertain  a  doubt — but  so  far 
as  his  own  execution  of  their  plan  was  at  issue,  he  realized 
that  at  once  in  its  true  colors. 

It  would  be  wickedly  and  grossly  unjust  to  Isabel.  And  it 
would  be  doing  violence  at  the  same  time  to  his  own  inner 
and  better  nature. 

But  then  the  claims  uyon  him  ?  Those  terrible  notes  of 
hand!  He  took  out  his  pocketbook,  lighted  one  candle, 
and  totted  them  all  up,  sum  by  sum,  at  compound  interest, 
as  they  stood  there  confessed,  from  the  very  first  moment. 
School  expenses,  tailor's  bill,  traveling,  rooms,  and  sund- 


90 


^//i^  sc.4/.Anr,ic, 


ries  ;  all  renewable  venriu  of  . 

'^«""ums  of  polices  wishing  "b  'T'^  «'""'"«  "'«• 
'"'»' the  total.,  appalled  and  «M  ''°?''^8'^o"  Heavens! 
'•■»  "fe  long  at  lly  IcTeZT''  ''"' '  "  ""^  -°"'e<l 
••'b'e  .o  earn  enough  to  rle,r  fT°"  *"  "■<"''"  ""er  be 
'vi'h  which  he  started      h":"  "f  "'•••'"y 'o«d  of  debt 

-fnl  al.ernatives-e  her"o  ht't  'h"'^  "'"'''  """  '«<> 
"»  originally  designed-"  l^  '  !""  ^"'"^^  "is  heiress, 
repugnance  ;  or  else  to  Dlivft,  "  ''""''"«  """"a 

Solo„,ons_to  when,  he  ted  'v  m'"'  '"'""  """  "^ 
benefactor  (as  he  had  been  ,  '  h  T  ^"^"'^  "''"''"«  "'« 
'"■•  years  perhaps  for  his  ful  '"^      '"  "^""^  "™)  waiting 

^V.-.iting  for  years   t^il"  '7^"'- 
renewable  annually,  the  sum  '       ,7  '""  '"'*"'y  P"  cent 

;'-;"'  «o  on  aci  .:,;":;" ':'-«« p-^  -  af,: 

'eh'nd  bond,  and  remain  whfn  L    r*^/"  ''"  "-^d- bond 
debt  to  whoever  came  after  hin,  '"  "''  '  """"««  of 

never  be  able  to  marry     Th/  k  "  """'•  "«  "ould  never, 
'be  rem  .,  ,„„^. ,  ._^  p^^  Jj-^^-onetcy  might  revert  to' 

^"Q  then,  for  one  bripf  .>, 
-  she  sat  on  the  hi  IsidT  hat  da'S'^r  ^""'^  »"««  '^ce 
•■-cross  Pauls  mental  vision  as  he^h?      ""'  '^«"««  «-»bed 
"ore  in  utter  despair,  and  iv.  h     '  °"'  ""  =''"'"«  once 
qualm  of  conscience.     VVas  it  no     17  u  "'  '"«''"  '"'ernal 
-hat  he  had  just  been  thirkilT     '*  ""  "^^  '"""enced  in 

-to  Nea-that  beautif      ^ptsslbfe^f ''  "''''''^'-'" 
He,  who  was  nobody  to  d^eZ    k       '  ""^"amable  Nea  ? 
-"'.  be  trusted  not'^'   or  h^f^lt  h""  '"  '    '"  "'^  '""'ost 
"o-ld   he  ,o  betray  hi,  father     ''7  """orthy  a  thing  it 
■"""'.  and  his  duty^  a     for  ll      <^  '  '""  ^'-  ^o'O" 

personal  likes  and  fancies     Wh.t        "'  "'"  °""  "'<='=«<' 

•    """""«■•  M»e,  he  would  ai 


BliinXD    THE   SCENES. 


•91 


least  try  to  keep  Nca  out  of  his  mind  severely,  and  decide 
the  question  upon  its  own  merits. 

He  would  try  to  envisage  it  thus  only  to  himself.  D'"'e 
he  do  this  great  wrong  to  Isabel  Royton  ? 

Or  to  any  other  woman  circumstanced  like  Isabel  ? 

He  would  try  to  let  it  hinge  on  that,  not  on  Nea. 

For,  after  all,  what  was  Nea  to  him,  or  he  to  Nea?  Six 
weeks  before  he  had  never  seen  her  ;  and  now — he  realized 
with  a  pang  to  himself  that  he  wouldn't  like  to  think  he 
should  never  again  see  Nea. 

And  all  through  the  long  sleepless  night  that  followed, 
one  truth  kept  breaking  in  upon  him  more  clearly  than 
ever  ;  if  he  would,  he  might  marry  Isabel  Boyton — and  pay 
off  Mr.  Solomons  without  Isabel's  ever  missing  those  few 
paltry  hundreds.  To  Isabel's  poppa  they  were  but  a  drop 
in  the  bucket  ;  and  yet  to  him,  Paul  (iascoyne,  they  were  a 
millstone  round  his  neck,  an  unsupportable  burden  put 
upon  him  almost  against  his  will,  before  he  had  yet  arrived 
at  years  of  discretion. 

CHAPTER  XI. 


BEHIND   THE   SCENES. 

Three  days  later,  Paul  and  his  companion  turned  their 
backs  on  Mentone  en  route  for  England.  Scallywag  as  he 
was,  Paul  had  so  far  succeeded  in  interesting  the  little  world 
of  the  Rives  d'Or  that  Mme.  Ceriolo  and  Nea  Blair,  and 
Isabel  Boyton  and  her  mamma,  and  even  the  great  Armitage 
himself — the  leader  of  the  coterie — came  down  to  the 
station  to  see  him  off.  Armitage  thoujght  it  was  always  well 
to  fall  in  with  the  general  opinion  of  society  upon  anybody 
or  anything.  But  just  before  they  bade  their  last  adieus  at 
the  barrier,  a   tidy  little  Frenchwoman  in  a  plain  black 


9a 


THE   SCALI.YWAG. 


dress  pushed  her  way  to  the  front  with  a  bouquet  in  her 
hand  of  prodigious  dimensions.  Tlie  Ceriolo  recognized 
her  in  a  moment  atjain.  It  was  that  compromising  little 
lady's  maid  at  th(r  tirs  Britanniqnds. 

"  Commeuty  cest  vous^  Mile.  Clarice  !  '*  Paul  cried,  taking 
her  hand  with  perfect  cmpreasfment,  though  he  blushed  a 
little  before  the  faces  of  all  his  fine  accpiaintances.  "  How 
kind  of  you  to  come  and  see  me  off  I  I  called  last  night 
at  your  hotel,  but  they  told  me  you  were  engaged  and 
couldn't  sec  mc." 

"  Justernent,  jc  faisais  la  coiffure  de  Madame,"  Mile. 
Clarice  answered,  unabashed  by  the  presence  of  the  Ceriolo 
and  so  much  good  society.  "  But,  cher  M.  Paul,  I 
couldn't  let  you  go  and  leave  Mentone  sans  vous  serrer  la 
main — moi  qui  vous  ai  connu  quand  vous  ^'tiez  tout  petit, 
tout  petit,  tout  petit — mais  tout  petit  comme  9a,  monsieur. 
And  I  do  myself  the  pleasure  of  bringing  you  a  bouquet 
for  cette  chere  maman.  You  will  make  her  my  compli- 
ments, cette  ch^re  maman.  Tell  her  it  has  been  so  delight- 
ful to  see  you  again.  It  has  recalled  those  so  happy  days 
at  Hillborough." 

Paul  took  the  big  bouquet  without  any  display  of  mau- 
vaise  honte,  and  thanked  the  voluble  little  Mile.  Clarice  for 
it  in  French  as  fluent  almost  as  her  own.  Mile.  Clarice  had 
tears  in  her  eyes.  "  And  to  hear  you  talk  that  beautiful 
language,"  she  cried,  "cette  belle  langue  que  je  vous  ai 
enseignee  moi-meme — ah,  que  c'est  charmant  ! "  She 
stooped  forward  irresistibly,  and  kissed  him  on  both  cheeks. 
Mile.  Clarice  was  forty,  but  plump  and  well-preserved. 
Paul  accepted  the  kisses  with  a  very  good  grace,  as  well  as 
the  two  hands,  with  which  she  bid  him  farewell.  "  And 
now  I  must  run  back,"  she  said,  "  I  must  run  back  this 
minute.  Madame  m' attend — elle  s* empatiente  tanty  Madame!  " 
And  with  another  good  kiss  and  two  shakes  of  the  hand  she 


'> 


BEI/LVD   THE  SCEXKS. 


93 


was  gone  ;  and  Paul  was  left  standing  alone  beside  the 
barrier. 

"  What  a  strange  creature  !  "  Mmc.  Ceriolo  cried,  put- 
ting lip  those  long-handled  tortoiseshcU  eyeglasses  of  hers 
and  following  the  impressionable  Krenchwonuin  with  her 
stony  glance  as  she  left  the  station.  "  Who  is  she,  Mr.  (las- 
coyne,  and  how  on  earth  did  you  ever  come  to  know  her?" 

•'  She's  an  old  friend  of  my  mother's,"  I'aul  answered 
once  more,  blurting  out  the  whole  simple  truth  ;  "and  she 
taught  me  French  at  Hillborough  when  I  was  a  little  chap, 
for  she  was  lady's  maid  at  a  house  where  my  father  was 
coachman,"  And  then,  without  waiting  to  observe  the 
effect  of  this  painful  Parthian  shot,  delivered  trembling,  he 
raised  his  hat,  and  bidding  a  comprehensive  good-by  to  all, 
at  once  took  refuge  with  Thistleton  behind  the  passengers' 
barrier. 

"  Cioodness  gracious ! "  Mme.  Ceriolo  cried,  looking 
round  with  an  astonished  air  of  surprise  to  Armitage  ;  "did 
you  ever  in  your  life  see  anything  so  funny  ?  One  would 
have  thought  the  woman  would  have  had  good  feeling  and 
good  sense  enough  not  to  inflict  herself  upon  him  in  the 
present  company.  She  may  have  been  a  friend  of  his 
mother's,  of  course,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  ;  but  if  she 
wanted  to  see  him,  she  should  have  gone  to  his  hotel  and 
seen  him  quietly.  She  ought  to  remember  that  now  he's 
heir  to  a  baronetcy  and  a  member  of  a  university,  and 
admitted  as  such  into  good  society."  For  since  Mentone 
had  decided  upon  adopting  Paul,  and  had  therefore  backed 
him  up  for  every  possible  virtue,  it  had  been  madame's  cue 
to  insist  most  strenuously  upon  the  genealogical  fact  that 
wherever  a  person  of  noble  race  may  happen  to  be  born,  or 
whatever  position  he  may  happen  to  fill,  he  retains  his 
sixteen  quarters  of  nobility  intact  for  all  that.  This  was 
one  for  Paul,  and  two  for  Mme.  Ceriolo. 


94 


THE  SCALLYWAG, 


<  I 
1 ' 


"  Why,  I  thought  it  was  so  nice  of  her,"  Nea  objected 
with  her  simple  Knglish  tenderheartedness,  ••  to  come  down 
and  see  him  off  so  sim|)ly  t>efore  us  all,  and  to  bring  him 
those  tlowers,  and,  in  the  simplicity  of  her  heart,  to  fall  on 
his  neck  and  kiss  him  openly.  Her  eyes  were  quite  full  of 
tears,  too.     I'm  sure,  Mme.Ceriolo,  she's  very  fond  of  him." 

"  Nea,  my  dear,"  Mme.  Ceriolo  remarked  severely,  with 
the  precise  smile  of  the  Hritish  matron,  "  your  views  are 
really  quite  revolutionary.  'I'here  should  be  natural  lines 
between  the  various  classes.  People  mustn't  all  get  mixed 
up  promiscuously.  Kven  if  she  liked  him,  she  shouldn't  let 
her  feelings  get  the  better  of  her.  She  should  always 
remember  to  keep  her  proper  place,  no  matter  what  her 
private  sentiments  may  prompt  her  to." 

And,  indeed,  in  Mme.  Ceriolo's  family  they  managed 
these  things  a  great  deal  better. 

For,  as  Nea  and  Mme.Ceriolo  were  coming  to  Mentone 
that  very  autumn,  a  little  episode  had  occurred  in  a  coffee 
room  at  Marseilles  which  may  be  here  related,  as  flashing 
a  ray  of  incidental  light  on  the  character  of  Mme.  Ceriolo's 
aristocratic  antecedents. 

They  reached  Marseilles  late  in  the  evening,  and  drove  at 
once  to  the  Hotel  du  Louvre — it  was  part  of  madame's  cue 
that  she  knew  the  best  and  most  luxurious  hotel  at  every 
town  in  Europe — where  they  went  down  in  their  traveling 
dress  to  the  restaurant  for  supper.  As  they  entered,  they 
found  they  had  the  room  to  themselves,  and  an  obsequious 
waiter,  in  an  irreproachable  white  tie  and  with  a  spotless 
napkin  hanging  gracefully  on  his  arm,  motioned  them  over 
without  a  word  to  a  table  near  the  fireplace.  For  the  indi- 
visible moment  of  time  while  they  took  their  seats  an 
observant  spectator  might  just  have  noted  a  flash  of 
recognition  in  madame's  eyes,  and  an  answering  flash  that 
twinkled  silently  in  the  obsequious  waiter's.     But  neither 


■  '•- 


'! 


BRHISn   Tf/E  SCEXF.S. 


9% 


spoke  a  word  of  any  sort  to  tlie  other,  save  in  the  way  of 
business.  Madame  took  the  carte  that  the  waiter  h.tiuled 
her  with  a  stifled  yawn,  and  ordered  an  omelette  and  a 
bottle  of  Beaujolais  with  the  same  careless  air  with  which 
she  would  have  ordered  it  from  any  other  young  man  in  a 
sinular  position. 

At  the  end  of  the  supper,  however,  she  sent  Nea  up  to 
get  her  necessaries  for  the  night  unpacked,  and  waited 
down  herself  to  ask  a  few  (juestions,  to  make  (juile  sure, 
she  saiil,  about  the  trains  to-morrow. 

As  soon  as  Nea  had  left  the  room,  the  obsetjuious  waiter 
approached  a  little  nearer,  and,  still  with  his  uneciuivocally 
respectful  air  and  his  spotless  napkin  hanging  gracefully 
over  his  arm,  stood  evitlently  awaiting  Mme.  Cleric^lo's  orders. 

Madame  eyed  him  a  moment  with  a  perfect  calm  througli 
those  aristocratic  glasses,  and  then  observed  (piietly,"  /»/«, 
('est  tot,"  without  moving  at  all  from  the  position  she  occu 
pied  when  Nea  left  her. 

*'  Yes.  it's  me,  Polly,"  the  irreproachable  waiter  answered, 
in  his  native  English,  straight  and  stiff  as  ever. 

*'  I  thought  you  were  going  to  make  the  season  at  Pau 
this  winter,"  Mme.  Ceriolo  remarked  in  an  arid  tone  of 
voice,  a  little  sour  about  the  upper  notes,  and  crumbling  her 
bread  with  one  hand  uneasily. 

"  I  was,"  the  irreproachable  waiter  replied,  without  mov- 
ing a  muscle,  **  but  I  aint  now.  The  governor  and  me  had 
a  blow-up  about  terms.  So  I  gave  him  the  slip,  and 
engaged  on  here — extra  hand  for  the  Riviera  season/' 

"  You  made  the  summer  at  Scheveningen,  I  think  ? " 
Mme.  Ceriolo  remarked  languidly,  as  one  discusses  the 
aftairs  of  an  indifferent  acquaintance. 

The  irreproachable  waiter  bowed  his  stiff,  official  bow. 

'*  At  the  Hotel  des  Anglais,"  he  answered,  in  his  unvary- 
ing hotel  tone. 


96 


THE  scallyw.h:. 


^>\ 


••('fOod  business?" 

"  No  ;  beastly.  All  Dutch  and  ricrman.  Them  gentle- 
men button  up  their  pockets  too  tight.  If  it  haiin't  been 
for  a  family  or  two  of  Knglish  and  .American  dropping  in 
casual,  the  tips  wouldn't  so  much  as  have  paid  for  my  wash* 
ing.     Dickeys  and  cuffs  come  dear  at  Scheveningen.'' 

There  was  a  slight  pause.  Then  Mme.  Ceriulo  spoke 
again. 


Tom." 
Yes,  Polly. 


Wh( 


Karl 


liut 
The 


lere  s  Kar 

"  With  a  variety  troup  at  Berlin,  when  I  last  heard  from 
him." 

"Doing  well?" 

"  Pretty  well,  I  believe.  Feathering  his  nest 
banjos  a'nt  anything  like  what  they'd  used  to  be. 
line's  overstocked,  that's  the  long  and  the  short  of  it." 

"  How's  mother?"  Mme.  Ceriolo  asked  carelessly. 

**  Drunk,"  the  irreproachable  waiter  responded,  re-arrang- 
ing  his  tie.     '*  Drunk,  as  usual." 

•'Still  at  the  Dials?" 

The  waiter  nodded.  "  She  can't  go  far  from  dear  old 
Drury,"  he  answered  vaguely. 

"  Well,  I  love  the  Lane  myself,"  Mme.  Ceriolo  responded. 
"  It's  a  rare  old  place.  I  never  was  happier,  Tom,  in  all 
my  life,  than  in  the  days  when  I  was  on,  long  ago,  in  the 
pantomime." 

"  You're  on  the  quiet,  now,  I  see,"  the  waiter  remarked, 
with  a  respectful  inclination— in  case  anybody  should  hap- 
pen to  see  him  through  the  glass  doors  that  opened  on  to 
the  corridor. 

Mme.  Ceriolo  bent  her  head.  '*  On  the  strict  quiet,"  she 
responded  coldly. 

♦'  Governess  ? " 


W 


^<L 


HUltlSn   Till:    SCtS'ES. 


f? 


14 


Well,  pretty  much  llial  sort  of  lliiny;,  you  know.  Com- 
panion.    Chaperon." 

•'To  an  Knjjiish  young  lady,  I  };atlicrcd  ?  " 

**  Yes.     Clcrjiynian's  ilaughttr." 

i'hf  waiter's  face  almost  r»'laxcil  into  a  broad  smile. 
'•  Well,  you  always  were  a  clever  one,  I'olly  !  "  he  exclaimed, 
delighted. 

Mme.  Ceriolo  drew  herself  up  very  stiff,  as  one  who  pre- 
fers to  discoura;^e  l-'vit)  i  i  the  lower  classes.  "  I  hope  I 
know  how  to  behave  myself  in  whatever  society  I  may  liap- 
pen  to  be  placed,"  she  answered  chillily. 

"  Vou  do,"  the  waiter  replied.  *'  You're  a  rare  one  at 
that.  I  wish  I  could  make  as  much  out  of  the  French  and 
(lerman  as  you  and  Rarl  do.  Mine's  all  thrown  away — alt 
waiters  speak  the  lot.  Say,  thoujjh  :  what  are  you  now — 
I  mean  in  the  way  o.f  name  and  niilion  ?  " 

"  Toujours  Ceriolo^'*  madame  answered,  with  a  quiet 
smile.  •' After  all,  it's  safer.  If  anybody  who  knew  you 
before  comes  up  and  calls  you  by  a  different  name  when 
you've  taken  an  a/ias^  how  awfully  awkward  !  And  really, 
if  it  comes  to  that,  Ceriolo's  as  good  a  name  for  a  person 
to  own  as  any  I  could  invent.  It's  suggestive  of  anything 
on  earth  bui  organ  grinding." 

For,  in  truth,  madame's  father,  the  reputed  count,  had 
really  earned  a  precarious  livelihood  by  the  production  of 
sweet  music  on  that  despised  instrument. 

The  irreproachable  waiter  smiled  an  immaculate  smile. 
"And  are  you  Italian  or  what?"  he  asked,  always  re- 
spectful. 

"  Tyrolese,"  madame  answered  carelessly :  "  it's  better 
so.  Widow  of  a  count  in  the  Austrian  service.  Mother  an 
English  woman — which  is  true  for  once,  you  see — brought 
up  in  Vienna  in  the  English  Church  by  special  agreement — 
to  suit  the  clergyman." 


98 


THE  SCALLYWAG. 


"  And  how  much  are  you  going  to  stand  me  for  my  dis- 
creet silence  ?"  the  waiter  asked,  coming  half  a  step  nearer, 
and  assuming  a  less  agreeable  tone  of  countenance. 

Madame  pulled  out  ten  francs  from  her  dainty  purse,  and 
laid  the  coin  gingerly  on  the  edge  of  the  table. 

"  Won't  do,"  the  waiter  observed,  shaking  his  head 
solemnly.  "  Not  enough  by  a  long  way.  Won't  do  at  aJl 
When  an  affectionate  brother  meets  his  sister  again,  whom 
he  hasn't  seen  for  more'n  a  twelvemonth — and  keeps  her 
secrets — he  can't  be  put  off  with  half  a  napoleon.  No,  no, 
Polly  ;  you  must  stand  me  a  sovereign." 

"  It's  an  imposition,"  Mme.  Ceriolo  remarked,  growing 
very  red  in  the  face,  but  remembering  even  so  to  preserve 
her  blandest  tone,  and  drawing  the  sum  in  question  unwill- 
ingly from  her  pocket, "  Tom,  I  call  it  a  perfect  imposition." 

"All  right,  my  angel,"  the  waiter  replied  calmly,  slipping 
the  coin  at  onct  Iwlo  his  pocket.  "  I've  done  as  much  more'n 
once  before  for  you,  Polly,  when  you  were  hard  up  ;  and, 
after  all,  it  aint  often  we  meet  now,  is  it,  my  chicken  ?" 

•*  You're  rude  and  coarse,"  Mme.  Ceriolo  answered, rising 
to  go.  "  I  wonder  you  dare  address  me  in  such  vulgar 
language." 

"  Well,  consideringyou'rea  countess,  it  is  rather  cheeky," 
the  waiter  replied,  smiling,  but  still  with  the  imperturbable 
attitude  of  the  well-bred  servant.  "  You  see,  Polly,  we 
aint  all  like  you.  I  wish  we  were  !  We  aint  all  learnt  to 
speak  the  Queen's  English  with  ease  and  correctness  from 
the  elocut»:»n  master  at  Drury." 

At  that  moment,  before  he  could  reveal  any  further  items 
of  domestic  history,  a  head  appeared  at  the  door,  and  the 
waiter,  without  altering  a  shade  of  his  tone,  continued 
respectfully  in  fluent  French,  "  Tris  bien,  madame.  The 
omnibus  will  be  here  to  take  down  your  luggage  to  the 

11.40."  . 


Lil 


'vL 


A    CHANCE  ACQUAINTANCE, 


99 


All  which  will  suggest  to  the  intelligent  reader's  mind 
the  fact  that  in  Mme.  Ceriolo's  family  the  distinctions  of 
rank  were  duly  observed,  and  that  no  member  of  that  noble 
and  well-bred  house  ever  allowed  his  feelings  of  affection  or 
of  contempt,  or  anger  or  of  laughter,  to  get  the  better  at 
any  time  of  his  sober  judgment. 

But  this  had  happened  three  months  before  the  moment 
when  Paul  Gascoyne  and  Charlie  Thistleton  were  seen  out 
of  the  station,  away  down  at  Mentone,  by  Mile.  Clarice,  the 
lady's  maid. 

CHAPTER    XII 


A   CHANCE    ACQUAINTANCE. 

While  Paul  and  his  pupil  were  traveling  north  to  Paris 
by  the  train  de  luxe  (at  the  pupil's  expense,  of  course — bicn 
intendu)y  away  over  in  England  Faith  Gascoyne  was  jour- 
neying homeward  with  a  heavy  heart  and  a  parliamentary 
ticket  by  the  slow  train  from  Dorsetshire  to  Hillborough. 

For  Faith  had  managed  to  get  away  for  her  holiday  to 
her  mother's  friends  in  a  sheltered  coastwise  nook  in  the 
beloved  West  Country,  where  the  sun  had  shone  for  her 
(by  rare  good  luck)  almost  as  brightly  as  on  the  Riviera, 
and  where  the  breakers  had  whitened  almost  as  blue  a  sea 
as  that  which  shattered  itself  in  shimmering  spray  upon  the 
bold  and  broken  rocks  of  La  Mortola.  A  delightful  holi- 
day indeed  for  poor  hard-worked  Faith,  far  from  the  alter- 
nate drudgery  of  school  or  home,  and  safe  from  the  per- 
petual din  and  uproar  of  those  joyous  but  all  too  effusively 
happy  infants.  And  now  that  short,  peaceful  interlude  of 
rest  and  change  was  fairly  over,  and  to-day  Faith  must 
return  to  her  post  at  Hillborough  in  good  time  for  the 
re-opening  of  school  day,  after  to-morrow. 

At  the  second  station  after  she  left  Seaminster,  Faith, 


i! 


lip 
ill 


iM! 


liili 


lOO 


THE  SCALLYWAG. 


who  had  hitherto  enjoyed  all  to  herself  the  commodious 
little  wooden  horsebox  known  as  a  third-class  compartment 
on  the  great  Occidental  Railway,  was  somewhat  surprised 
to  see  the  door  of  her  carriage  thrown  open  with  a  flourish 
by  a  footman  in  livery,  and  a  middle-aged  lady  (forto  Faith 
thirty-seven  was  already  middle-age),  far  better  dressed 
than  the  average  of  parliamentary  pa5isengers,  seat  herself 
with  a  quiet  smile  of  polite  recognition  at  the  opposite 
window. 

Faith's  democratic  back  was  set  up  at  once  by  the  lady's 
presumption  in  venturing  to  intrude  her  well-bred  presence 
into  a  parliamentary  compartment.  People  who  employ 
footmen  in  livery  ought  to  herd  with  their  equals  in  a  well- 
padded  first,  instead  of  rudely  thrusting  themselves  to  spy 
out  the  manners  and  customs  of  their  even-Christians 
whose  purses  compel  them  to  travel  third  in  commodious 
horseboxes.  Faith  resented  the  intrusion  as  she  resented 
the  calls  of  the  district-visitors  who  dropped  in  at  all  times 
and  seasons  to  bestow  good  advice  gratis  upon  herself  and 
her  mother,  but  would  have  been  very  much  astonished  if 
the  cabowner's  wife  had  reciprocated  the  attention  by  send- 
ing in  a  card  casually  on  their  own  "  at  home"  day.  These 
de  haut  en  bas  civilities  were  not  much  to  Faith's  taste  :  she 
had  too  much  self-respect  and  self-reverence  herself  to  care 
either  for  obtruding  upon  others  or  being  herself  obtruded 
upon. 

But  the  lady  settled  herself  down  in  her  seat,  and  spoke 
with  such  unassuming  and  sprightly  graciousness  to  Faith 
that  even  that  national  schoolmistress'  proud  heart  was 
melted  by  degrees,  and  before  the  two  had  reached  Wil- 
mington Junction  they  were  hard  at  work  in  conversation 
with  one  another. 

"Dear  me,  where's  my  lunch-basket?"  the  lady  said  at 
last,  looking  around   for  the   racks  which  did  not   exist 


A    CHANCE  ACQUAINTANCE. 


lOI 


in  the  commodious  horsebox ;  "  is  it  over  your  side,  my 
dear?" 

She  said  "  My  dear,"  so  simply  and  naturally,  that  Faith 
could  hardly  find  it  in  her  heart  to  answer, 

**  1  think  your  footman — or,  at  least,  the  gentleman  in 
tight  silk  stockings  who  saw  you  off — put  it  under  the  seat 
there." 

The  lady  laughed  a  good-natured  laugh. 

"  Oh,  he's  not  my  footman,"  she  answered,  stooping 
down  to  look  for  it.  "  He  belongs  to  some  friends  where 
I  have  been  spending  Christmas.  It  doesn't  run  to  foot- 
men with  me^  I  can  assure  you.  If  it  did,  I  wouldn't  be 
traveling  third  this  morning." 

'•  No  ?  "  Faith  queried  coldly. 

"  No,"  the  lady  answered,  with  a  gentle  but  very  decisive 
smile  ;  "  nor  you  either,  if  it  comes  to  that.  Nobody  ever 
travels  third  by  preference  :  so  don't  pretend  it  !  There 
are  people  who  tell  you  they  do,  but  then  they're  snobs, 
and  also  untruthful.  They're  afraid  to  say  they  do  it  for 
economy.  I'm  not.  I  travel  third  because  its  cheap.  As 
Pooh-Bah  says  in  the  play,  1  do  it,  but  I  don't  like  it. 
Now  say  the  truth  yourself  ;  wouldn't  you,  if  you  could, 
always  travel  first  or  second  ?  " 

•*  I've  never  tried,"  Faith  answered  evasively.  "  I've 
never  had  money  enough." 

"  Now,  that's  right !  "  the  stranger  exclaimed  warmly, 
opening  her  lunch-basket,  and  taking  out  some  cold  grouse 
and  a  flask  of  claret.  "  That  shows  at  once  you  have  blue 
blood.  I'm  a  great  admirer  of  blue  blood  myself — I  firmly 
believe  in  it." 

"  I  don't  precisely  see  what  blue  blood's  got  to  do  with 
the  matter,"  Faith  answered,  bewildered.  "  I  come  from 
a  little  country  town  in  Surrey,  and  I'm  a  national  school- 
mistress." 


•  I 


103 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


ij'i. 


!i,! 


"  Exactly,"  the  lady  echoed.  "  The  very  moment  I  set 
eyes  on  you  I  felt  sure  you  had  blue  blood.  I  saw  it  in 
your  wrists,  and  I  wasn't  mistaken.  You  mayn't  know  it, 
perhaps — a  great  many  people  have  got  blue  blood  and 
aren't  aware  of  it.  But  it's  there  for  all  that,  as  blue  as 
indigo  ;  and  I,  who  am  a  connoisseur  in  matters  of  blood, 
can  always  spot  it."  And  she  proceeded  to  take  out  from  a 
dainty  case  a  knife,  fork,  spoon,  and  a  couple  of  drinking- 
glasses. 

"  But  how  did  you  spot  it  in  me  just  now  ? "  Faith  asked 
with  a  smile,  not  wholly  unfiattered. 

•*  Because  you  weren't  ashamed  to  say  you'd  never 
traveled  anything  but  third  ;  and  because  you  in?  isted 
then  with  unnecessary  zeal  on  the  smallness  and  humility 
of  your  own  surroundings.  Only  blue  blood  ever  does 
that.  Everybody's  descended  from  a  duke  on  one  side 
and  a  cobbler  on  the  other.  Snobs  try  always  to  bring 
forward  their  duke  and  conceal  their  cobbler.  Blue 
blood's  prouder,  and  franker  too.  It  insists  upon  its  cob- 
bler being  duly  recognized." 

"  Well,  I'm  not  ashamed  of  mine.  I'm  proud  of  him," 
Faith  answered,  coloring  up ;  "  but  all  the  same  I  don't 
like  blue  blood.  It's  so  hard  and  unfeeling.  It  makes  me 
mad  sometimes.  You  wouldn't  believe  how  it  keeps  people 
waiting  tor  their  money." 

"  I'm  sorry  you  don't  like  it,"  the  lady  said,  with  the  same 
soft  smile  as  before  and  a  bewitching  look,  "  for  then  you 
won't  like  me.  I'm  blue,  very  blue,  as  blue  as  the  sky,  and 
I  don't  pretend  to  deny  it.  Will  you  take  a  little  grouse, 
and  a  glass  of  claret  ?  " 

**  Thank  you,"  Faith  answered  coldly,  flushing  up  once 
more.     "  I  have  my  own  lunch  here  in  my  own  parcel." 

"  What  have  you  got  ? "  the  lady  asked,  with  the  in- 
quiring air  of  a  profound  gourmet. 


\\\ 


A    CHANCE   ACqrAINTAXCE. 


»03 


"Hard-boiled  eggs  and  sandwiches,"  Faith  said,  half- 
choking. 

*'  Well,  Lady  Seaminster  didn't  give  me  any  hard-boiled 
eggs,"  the  lady  said,  searching  in  vain  in  her  basket.  **  May 
1  have  one  of  yours?     Let's  share  our  provisions." 

Faith  could  hardly  say  no,  though  she  saw  at  once  through 
the  polite  ruse  ;  so  she  passed  an  egg  to  the  lady  with  an 
"Oh,  of  course,  I  shall  be  delighted  ;  "  and  proceeded  her- 
self to  eat  a  very  dry  sandwich. 

"  Have  some  grouse,"  the  lady  said,  passing  her  over  a 
piece  on  a  little  electro-plated  dish.  "And  a  glass  of 
claret." 

"  I've  never  tasted  claret,"  Faith  answered  grimly.  "  I 
don't  know  if  I'll  like  it." 

"All  the  better  reason  for  trying  it  now,"  the  lady  replied, 
still  cheerfully  kind  in  spite  of  rebuffs,  "And  so  you 
thought  that  elegant  gentleman  in  silk  stockings  was  my 
servant,  did  you  ?  What  a  capital  joke  !  But  people  at 
Oxford  can't  afford  to  keep  footmen  in  tights,  you  know. 
We're  as  poor  as  church  mice  there — poor,  but  cultured." 

A  flash  of  interest  gleamed  for  a  second  in  Faith's  eyes  at 
the  mention  of  Oxford.  "  Oh,  you  live  there,  do  you  ? "  she 
said.     "I  should  like  to  see  Oxford." 

"  Yes,  my  husband's  professor  of  Accadian,"  the  lady  re- 
marked. "  His  name's  Douglas.  But  I  dare  say  you  don't 
know  what  Accadian  is.  /didn't,  I'm  sure,  till  I  married 
Archie." 

A  fuller  flush  came  on  Faith's  cheek.  "  I've  heard  of  it 
from  my  brother,"  she  said  simply.  "  I  think  it  was  the 
language  spoken  in  Assyria  before  the  Assyrians  went  there, 
wasn't  it  ?  Ah,  yes,  Paul  told  me  so.  And  I've  heard  him 
speak  of  your  husband  too,  I  fancy." 

"  Have  you  a  brother  at  Oxford,  then  ? "  the  lady  asked 
with  a  start. 


\ 


w 


s, 


104 


r//E   SCALLYWAG. 


"  Yes,  at  Christ  Church." 

"  Why,  that's  Archie's  college,"  the  lady  went  on,  smil- 
ing.    "  What's  his  name  ?     I  may  know  him." 

"I  don't  think  so.     His  name's  Gascoyne." 

Mrs.  Douglas  fairly  jumped  with  her  triumph.  "  There  ! 
Didn't  I  tell  you  so  ?  "  she  cried,  clapping  her  hands  in  her 
joy.  "  You  have  blue  blood.  It's  as  clear  as  mud. 
Archie's  told  me  all  about  your  brother.  He's  poor  but 
blue.     I  kMcw  you  were  blue.     Your  father's  a  baronet." 

Faith  trembled  all  over  at  this  sudden  recognition. 
*'  Yes,"  she  answered  with  some  annoyance.  "  But  he's  as 
as  poor  as  he  can  be.  He's  u  cabdriver  too.  I  told  you  I 
wasn't  ashamed  of  my  cobbler." 

*'  And  /  told  you  I  was  sure  you  had  blue  blood,"  Mrs. 
Douglas  echoed,  delighted.  "  Now — tRis  is  quite  too 
lovely,  trying  to  pass  yourself  off  for  a  roturier  like  that. 
But  it's  no  use  with  me.  I  see  through  these  flimsy  dis- 
guises always.  Have  some  more  claret — it's  not  so  bad,  is 
it  ?     And  so  you'd  love  to  go  to  Oxford  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Faith  faltered.  "  Paul's  told  me  so  much  about 
it." 

"  Guard,"  the  lady  cried,  as  they  stopped  at  a  station, 
"  do  we  change  here  ?  Mind  you  tell  uj  when  we  get  to 
Hillborough  Junction." 

She  had  enjoined  this  upon  him  already  more  than  a 
dozen  times  since  they  started  on  their  journey,  and  the 
guard  was  beginning  to  get  a  little  tired  of  it. 

"  All  right,  mum,"  he  said  in  a  testy  voice.  "  Don't  you 
be  afeard.  I'll  see  you  all  right.  Jest  you  sit  where  you 
are  until  I  come  and  tell  you." 

"  Why,  that's  where  /  have  to  change,"  Faith  observed, 
as  Mrs.  Douglas  withdrew  her  head  from  the  window. 

"Well,  that's  all  right,"  Mrs  Douglas  replied,  with  a 
cheery  nod.       Now  we  can  have  such  a  nice  tite-h-tite 


'*i^=3!a=- 


.4    ClIAXCE  ACQUAIXTAXCE, 


105 


together.  You  must  tell  me  all  about  yotir  brother  aud 
yourself.  Do  you  know,  my  husband  thinks  your  brother's 
awfully  clever  ? " 

She  had  found  the  right  way  to  Faith's  heart  at  last. 
Thus  adjured,  Faith  began  to  gossip  with  real  good  will 
about  Paul,  and  her  mother,  and  the  business  at  Hill- 
borouj,di,  and  the  life  of  a  schoolmistress,  and  the  trials  she 
endured  at  the  hands  (and  throats)  of  those  unconscious 
iufants.  She  talked  away  more  and  more  familiarly  as  the 
time  went  on,  till  dusk  set  in,  and  the  lamp  in  the  horsebox 
alone  was  left  to  light  them.  Mrs.  Douglas,  in  spite  of  her 
prejudice  in  favor  of  blue  blood,  was  really  sympathetic  ; 
and  by  dexterous  side-questions  she  drew  out  of  Faith  the 
inmost  longings  and  troubles  of  her  heart — how  the  local 
Hillborough  grandees  owed  long  bills  which  they  wouldn't 
pay  ;  how  Paul  was  cramped  at  Christ  Church  for  want  of 
money  ;  how  her  father  was  growing  rheumatic  and  too  old 
for  (lis  work  ;  how  hard  a  time  they  often  had  in  the  winter  ; 
how  fond  she  was  of  Paul,  and  Paul  of  her  ;  how  he  had 
taught  her  in  his  holidays  all  he  learned  himself  ;  how  they 
two  read  Daudet  and  Victor  Hugo  together  ;  and  how  she 
longed  with  all  her  heart  and  soul  to  be  free  from  the  in- 
describable bondage  of  the  infants.  Everything  she  told — 
Mrs.  Douglas  was  so  excellent  and  friendly  a  wielder  of  the 
pump— save  that  one  hateful  secret  about  Mr.  Solomons. 
There,  Faith  was  always  discreetly  silent.  She  hated  that 
horrible  compact  so  thoroughly  in  her  soul  that  she  could 
never  so  much  as  bring  herself  to  speak  of  it,  even  in  the 
family  circle. 

They  talked  so  long,  and  talked  so  earnestly,  that  they 
quite  forgot  about  Hillborough  Junction. 

At  last,  as  the  clock  was  sounding  seven,  they  arrived  at 
a  big  and  noisy  station  where  porters  were  shouting  and 
trains  were  puffing  and  the  electric  light  was  fizzing  and 


k 


1 06 


r//£  SCALLYIVAG. 


I 

V 

1 


I.  ( 


[-r 


:i!'  ! 


spluttering.  Mrs.  Douglas  put  her  head  out  of  the  win. 
duw  once  more  and  called  out  to  the  guard,  "  Now  is  this 
Hillborough  Junction  ? " 

The  guard,  with  a  righteously  astonished  air,  cried  back 
in  reply,  "  Hillborough  Junction  !  Why,  what  are  you 
thinking  of,  mum?  We  passed  Hillborough  Junction  a 
clear  two  hours  ago." 

Faith  looked  at  Mrs.  Douglas,  and  Mrs.  Douglas  looked 
at  Faith.  They  stared  in  silence.  Then  the  elder  woman 
burst  suddenly  into  a  good-natured  laugh.  It  was  no  use 
bullying  that  righteously  astonished  guard.  He  was  clearly 
expostulation-proof  by  long  experience.  "  When  can  we 
get  a  train  back  ? "  she  asked  instead,  with  practical 
wisdom. 

And  the  guard  answered,  in  the  same  business-like  tone, 
"  You  can't  get  no  train  back  to-night  at  all.  Last's  gone. 
You'll  have  to  stop  here  till  to-morrow  morning." 

Mrs.  Douglas  laughed  again  ;  to  her  it  was  a  mere 
adventure.  The  Lightbody's  carriage,  which  was  sent  down 
to  meet  her,  would  have  to  go  back  to  the  Rectory  empty — 
that  was  all.  But  tears  rushed  up  suddenly  into  poor 
Faiih's  eyes.  To  her  it  was  nothing  less  than  a  grave  mis- 
fortune. 

"  Oh,  where  can  I  go?"  she  cried,  clasping  her  hands 
together  nervously.  "And  mother'll  be  so  dreadfully, 
dreadfully  frightened !  " 

Mrs.  Douglas's  face  grew  somewhat  graver.  "  You  must 
come  with  me  to  a  hotel,"  she  answered  kindly. 

Faith  looked  back  at  her  with  eyes  of  genuine  dismay. 
"  1  can't,"  she  murmured  in  a  choking  voice.  "  I — I 
couldn't  afford  to  go  to  any  hotel  where  you'd  go  to." 

Mrs.  Douglas  took  in  the  whole  difficulty  at  a  glance, 
"How  much  have  you  pjot  with  you,  dear?"  she  asked 
gently. 


A    CHANCE  ACQUAINTAXCE, 


107 


•'  Four-and-sixpence,"  Faith  answered  with  a  terrible  gulp. 
To  her  that  was  indeed  a  funnidable  sum  tu  have  to  spend 
unexpectedly  upon  a  night's  lodging. 

"  H  I  were  to  lend  you  a  few  shillings "  Mrs.  Doug- 

las  began.     But  Faith  shook  her  head. 

"  That  would  be  no  use,  thank  you — thank  you  ever  so 
much,"  she  replied,  gasping.  "I  couldn't  pay  it  back.  I 
mean,  I  couldn't  afford  to  pay  so  much  for — for  a  mistake 
of  my  own  in  not  getting  out  at  the  right  station." 

"The  mistake  was  mine,"  Mrs.  Douglas  said  with  prompt 
decision.  "  It  was  I  who  misled  you.  I  ought  to  have 
asked."  She  hesitated  for  a  moment.  "  There's  a  good 
hotel  here,  I  know,"  she  began  once  more  timidly  ;  "  if 
you'd  only  be  so  nice  as  to  come  there  as  my  guest." 

But  Faith  shook  her  head  more  vigorously  than  before. 

"  You're  a  dear,  kind  thing,"  she  cried,  grasping  her  new 
friend's  hand  and  pressing  it  warmly;  "and  I'm  ever  so 
grateful.  But  I  couldn't— I  couldn't — oh,  no  !  I  couldn't. 
It  may  be  pride,  and  it  may  be  the  blood  of  the  cobblers  in 
me,  1  don't  know  which,  but  I  never  could  do  it — I  really 
couldn't." 

Mrs.  Douglas  had  tact  enough  to  see  at  once  she  really 
meant  it,  and  that  nothing  on  earth  would  shake  her  firm 
resolve  ;  so  she  paused  a  moment  to  collect  her  thoughts. 
Then  she  said  once  more,  with  that  perfect  good  humor 
which  seemed  never  to  desert  her,  **  Well,  if  that's  so,  my 
dear,  there's  no  other  way  out  of  it.  The  mountain  won't 
come  to  Mahomet,  it  appears,  so  I  suppose  Mahomet  must 
go  to  the  mountain.  If  you  won't  come  to  my  hotel,  my 
child,  I'll  just  have  to  go  and  stop  at  yours  to  take  care  of 
you." 

Faith  drew  back  with  a  little  cry  of  depreciation.  "  Oh, 
no,"  she  exclaimed  ;  "  I  could  never  let  you  do  that,  I'm 
sure,  Mrs.  Douglas." 


,fl 


1 08 


THE  SCALLYWAG, 


! 


(  1 


Rut  on  that  point  Mrs.  noiiglas  was  firm.  The  rock  of 
the  <"^//'r//<//AYj  on  which  she  foiiiuled  her  pica  could  not 
have  been  more  immovable  in  its  fixity  than  herself. 
"  There  are  no  two  ways  about  it,  my  dear,"  she  said,  after 
Faith  had  |)leaded  in  vain  every  plea  she  knew  to  be  let  go 
alone  to  her  own  sort  of  lodging-house  ;  *•  the  thing's  im- 
possible. I'm  a  married  woman,  and  older  than  you,  and  I 
know  all  about  it.-  A  girl  of  your  age — a  baronet's  daugh- 
ter, too — can't  be  permitted  to  go  by  herself  to  an  inn  or 
public-house,  especially  the  sort  of  inn  you  seem  to  imply, 
without  a  married  woman  to  guarantee  her  and  chaperon 
her.  As  a  Christian  creature,  I  couldn't  dream  of  allowing 
it.  Why,  that  dear  mother  of  yours  would  go  out  of  her 
senses  if  she  only  knew  you'd  been  passing  a  night  alone  in 
such  a  place  without  me  to  take  care  of  you."  A  sudden 
thought  seemed  to  strike  her  all  at  once.  "  Stop  here  a 
second,"  she  said,  "  I'll  soon  come  back  to  you." 

Faith  stopped  on  the  platform  by  her  one  small  portman- 
teau for  five  minutes  or  more  ;  ani!  then  Mrs.  Douglas  re- 
turned triumphant.  "  This  is  what  I've  said,"  she  ex- 
claimed, brandishing  a  piece  of  white  paper  all  radiant 
before  her  :  "I've  sent  off  a  telegram:  'Mrs.  Douglas, 
Pendlebury,  to  Oascoyne,  Plowden's  Court,  Hillborough, 
Surrey.  Your  daughter  has  missed  her  train,  but  is  here 
and  safe.  Will  return  to-morrow.  I  am  taking  her  to  a 
respectable  inn  for  the  night.  I  am  a  friend  of  the  Light- 
bodys,  of  Cheriton  Rectory.'  " 

'*  How  did  you  know  my  address  ?"  Faith  gasped,  aston- 
ished. 

"  My  dear,"  Mrs.  Douglas  replied,  "  I  happen  to  possess 
a  pair  of  eyes.  I  read  it  on  the  label,  there,  on  your  port- 
manteau." 

"  How  much  did  it  cost  ?"  Faith  cried,  all  aghast. 

"  I  refuse  to  be  questioned  about  my  private  correspond- 


liKOTUEK  AXI>  SIS  r /•:/{. 


109 


once,"  Mrs.  Douglas  answered  firmly.     "That's  my  affair, 
riie  telegram's  mine,  and  sent  in  my  own  name.     .And  now, 
drar,  we've  got  to  go  out  into  tlie  town  and  hunt  about  for 
our  four-and-sixpenny  lodging." 

CHArTKK  XIII. 


BROTHER    AND    SISTF.R. 

"So  what  (lid  you  do  then  ?"  Paul  asked  two  days  later, 
as  his  sister  and  he  sat  hand  in  hand,  comparing  notes  over 
their  winter's  adventures. 

"  So  then,"  I'aith  went  on,  continuing  her  tale  with 
unusual  animation,  "  we  ran  about  to  two  or  three  little 
places,  to  see  which  one  would  take  us  cheapest.  And  Mrs. 
Douglas,  oh,  she's  a  wonderful  one  at  bargaining — you  and 
1  would  never  dare  to  do  it.  We  wouldn't  have  the  face  to 
beat  people  down  so.  *  No,'  she  said,  'that  won't  suit  us 
— we  want  bed  and  breakfast  for  half-a-crown,'  and  you'll 
hardly  believe  it,  at  last  she  got  it." 

It  was  the  luncheon  hour  on  the  first  day  of  Faith's  return 
to  the  slavery  of  the  infants  ;  but  Faith  had  not  gone  home 
for  her  midday  meal.  She  had  got  Paul  to  bring  it  out  to 
her  in  her  father's  tin  up  to  the  Knoll,  the  heath-clad  height 
that  overhangs  Hillborough,  and  from  which  the  town 
derives  its  name.  A  little  wooden  summer-house,  in  form 
like  a  small  Ionic  temple,  consisting  only  of  a  circular  roof 
supported  by  heavy  wooden  columns,  in  the  quaint  bad 
taste  of  the  eighteenth  century,  crowns  the  summit :  and 
here,  on  that  bright,  frosty  January  morning,  in  spite  of  the 
cold,  Faith  preferred  to  eat  her  lunch  undisturbed  under 
the  clear  blue  sky,  in  order  to  enjoy  an  uninterrupted  inter- 
change of  confidences  with  her  newly  returned  brother. 
In  the  small  houses  of  the  laboring  classes  and  the  lesser 


k 


t\ 


no 


yy/A"  scAU.vwAii, 


ii 


ii 


i 


Ii 


bourji^eome  a  Ute-^tfte  in  impoHsibte.  People  in  that  rank 
of  life  always  );o  oiitiloorn  to  say  whatever  they  have  must 
at  heart  to  one  another  :  a  fact  that  explains  innch  in  their 
habits  and  manners  whereat  the  unrellectin);  in  the  classes 
above  them  are  apt  to  jeer  beyond  what  is  seemly.  So, 
bruscpie  as  was  the  chanKt-'  t^  V-\w\  from  the  lemon-droves 
of  Mcntone  to  the  bare  bonghs  and  leafless  trnnks  of  the 
beeches  and  chestnuts  on  the  Knoll  at  llillborough,  he  was 
glad  to  embr.ice  that  chance  of  out-pouring  his  soul  to  his 
one  intimate  friend  and  confidante,  his  sister,  in  the  i  jCoco 
summer  house  on  the  open  hilltop,  rather  than  in  the  nar- 
row little  parlor  at  the  ancestral  abode  of  the  Gascoyne 
family. 

"  We  couldn't  have  done  it  ourselves,"  Paul  mused  In 
reply.  •'  Hut  that's  always  the  way  with  people  who  feel 
sure  of  their  ground,  Faith.  They'll  bargain  and  haggle 
ten  times  as  much  over  a  shilling  as  we  will.  You  see, 
they're  not  afraid  of  losing  caste  by  it." 

"  That's  just  it,"  Faith  went  on.  "  She  was  as  bold  as 
brass  about  it.  *  Half-a-crown  and  not  one  penny  more  we 
pay,'  she  said,  putting  her  little  foot  down  smartly — just 
like  this;  'and  we  don't  want  any  supper;  because,  you 
see.  Faith,  you  and  I  can  sup  in  our  own  room,  to  save  ex- 
pense, off  the  remains  of  the  sandwiches  and  the  grouse 
and  claret.'  " 

"  No  !  She  didn't  say  that  out  loud  before  their  faces  ? " 
Paul  exclaimed,  aghast. 

"  Yes  she  did,  before  their  very  faces,  my  dear  ;  and  me 
there,  just  ready  to  drop  at  her  side  with  shame  and  annoy- 
ance. But,  Paul,  she  didn't  seem  to  care  a  pin.  She  was 
as  high  and  mighty  as  if  she  had  ordered  a  private  room, 
with  champagne  and  turtle.  She  held  up  her  head  like  a 
thorough  lady,  and  made  me  feel  quite  bold  myself,  merely 
by  dint  of  her  good  example." 


Buor/iiJi  Axn  sisiHK. 


Ill 


"And  you  slept  together?"  Paul  asked. 

"  And  wc  slept  toj^ethcr,"  Kaiih  answered.  •'  She  said 
Hhc  didn't  mind  a  hit  sharing;  the  sanwr  room,  though  she 
would  with  some  people,  because  I  had  blue  blood — she 
was  always  talking  that  nonsense  about  blue  blood,  you 
know — and  blue  blood  was  akin  all  the  world  over.  And  I 
said  I'd  always  understood,  from  the  documents  in  the  case, 
that  mankind  was  made  of  one  flesh,  everywhere  alike,  no 
matter  what  might  be  the  particular  color  or  (ju.ility  of  its 
circulating  fluid  ;  and  for  my  part  I  didn't  c  \re  a  brass 
farthing  whether  her  blood  was  blue,  or  pink,  or  yellow,  or 
merely  red  like  us  common  people's  :  for  she  was  a  dear, 
good  thing,  anyhow,  and  I  liked  her  ever  so.  And  then  she 
took  my  face  between  her  hands,  like  this,  and  kissed  me  so 
hard,  and  said,  '  Now  we  two  are  friends  for  good  and  al- 
ways, so  we'll  talk  no  more  nonsense  about  debatable 
questions.*  And,  Paul,  she's  really  such  a  sweet,  kind  soul, 
1  could  almost  forgive  her  for  being  such  a  dreadful  aris- 
tocrat. Why,  do  you  know,  she  says  she  pays  everybody 
weekly,  and  never  kept  even  a  washerwoman  waiting 
for  her  money,  not  a  fortnight  in  her  life,  and  wouldn't 
either ! " 

"  Well,  you  see,  Faith,"  Paul  answered,  musing,  "  I  ex- 
pect the  fact  is,  very  often,  they  don't  remember,  and 
they've  no  idea  what  trouble  they're  causing.  Perhaps  we 
oughtn't  to  judge  them  too  hardly." 

"  /  judge  them  hardly,"  Faith  cried,  flushing  up  :  "  and 
so  would  you,  if  you'd  the  bills  to  make  up,  and  had  to  go 
round  to  their  very  doors  to  ask  them  for  the  money.  But 
Mrs.  Douglas,  she's  quite  another  sort — she's  quite  dif- 
ferent. You  can't  think  how  friendly  we  got  together  in 
that  one  evening.  Though,  to  be  sure,  we  lay  awake  the 
best  part  of  the  night,  chattering  away  like  a  couple  of 
magpies ;  and  before  morning  we  were  much  more  inti- 


i.,1 


I    I 


■II 


,   'til 


li 


112 


yy//-;  scailyuag. 


mate  t'.ian  I  ever  was  with  any  other  woman  in  all  my  life. 
1  think,  perhaps "  and  then  Kaith  hesitated. 

*•  You  think,  perhaps,  it  was  because  she  was  niore  like 
the  sort  of  person  you  ought  naturally  to  mix  with,"  I'aul 
suggested  gently,  reading  with  his  quick  sympathetic  in- 
stinct her  unuttered  thought. 

Faith  faltered  still.  "  Well,  perhaps  so,"  she  said. 
"  More  my  equal,  at  least  in  intelligence  and  feeling. 
Though  1  should  be  sorry  to  think,  Paul,"  she  added  after 
a  pause,  "  I  had  more  in  common  with  the  class  that  keeps 
people  waiting  for  tlieir  money  than  with  dear,  good, 
honest,  hard-working  souls  like  father  and  mother." 

•*  I  don't  think  the  classes  need  be  mutually  exclusive,  as 
we  say  in  logic,"  Paul  mused  slowly.  •'  Vou  see,  I  mix  a 
good  deal  with  both  classes  now ;  and  it  seems  to  me  there 
may  be  good  and  bad  in  both  about  equally." 

"  Perhaps  so.  But  the  harm  the  one  class  does  comes 
home  to  me,  of  cjurse,  a  great  deal  more  than  the  harm 
done  by  the  other.  The'y  give  me  such  a  lot  of  bother 
about  the  bills  ;  you  wouldn't  believe  it.  But  Mrs.  Douglas 
is  a  dear,  I'm  sure  of  that.  She  gave  me  such  a  kiss  when 
she  saw  me  off  by  the  train  next  morning,  and  she  said  to 
me,  '  Now,  remember,  Faith,  dear,  I  expect  you  to  come  in 
summer-term,  and  visit  me  at  Oxford.*  " 

"At  Oxford?"  Paul  cried,  with  a  start  of  short-lived 
pleasure. 

"  Oh,  yes,  she  was  always  going  on  about  that  the  whole 
night  through.  She  kept  at  it  all  the  time,  *  You  must 
come  to  Oxford.'  Fd  happened  to  say  to  her  earlier  in  the 
day,  while  we  were  in  the  train  together,  and  before  we  got 
quite  so  intimate  with  one  another,  that  I'd  always  had 
such  a  longing  to  see  the  university  ;  and  as  soon  as  we'd 
begun  to  chum  up  a  bit,  you  know,  she  said  at  once,  '  Next 
summer-term  you  must  come  and  visit  me  at  Oxford.'    But 


i     Mi 


BROIirER   AXD   S/ST/'.K 


I '3 


it  couldn't  be  manajjecl,  of  course,"  l-'aitli  went  on  with  a 
siyli.  "  The  lliin;;'s  beyond  us.  'I'hoiij^h  1  couldn't  make 
lid  understand  how  utterly  inii)ossible  it  was." 

Paul's  face  fell.  "  I  suppose  it  is  in-.ossible,"  lie  nuir- 
nuucd,  disappointed.  "  You  couldn't  get  the  proper  sor'. 
of  clothes,  I  expect,  to  go  and  slop  at  Mrs.  Douglas', 
could  you  ? " 

**  No,"  l-'aith  answered  very  decisively.  "  1  couldn't 
indeed.  It  may  be  wicked  [)ride,  but  I'm  woman  enough 
to  fe^l  I  won't  go  unless  1  can  be  dressed  as  well  as  all  the 
(jlhers." 

'*  It's  a  dreadful  thing,  Faith,"  Paul' said,  still  holding 
her  hand  and  looking  away  vaguely  over  the  bare  Knglish 
landscape — so  painful  a  contrast  to  the  green  of  Mentone  ; 
*'  it's  a  dreadful  thing  that  I  can't  do  anything  in  that  way 
to  help  you.  Now,  any  other  brother,  situated  as  1  am, 
would  be  able  to  assist  his  sister  a  bit,  and  make  her  a 
little  present  of  a  dress  and  hat  for  such  an  occasion  as 
that,  for  example.  But  I — I  cant.  Whatever  I  have  is  all 
Mr.  Solomons'.  I  can't  spend  a  single  penny  unnecessarily 
on  myself  or  yon  without  doing  wrong  to  him  and  father 
and  you  and  mother.  There's  the  tenner,  now.  I  got  from 
Thistleton  for  coaching  him  :  under  any  other  circum- 
stances, I'd  be  able  to  look  upon  that  as  my  own  to  spend — 
1  earned  it  myself — and  to  get  you  an  evening  dress  (you'd 
want  a  simple  evening  dress,  of  course)  to  go  to  Oxford 
with.  But  I  can't  allow  myself  such  a  luxury  as  that.  If 
I  did,  I'd  have  to  get  another  tenner  the  more  from  Mr. 
.Solomons,  and  sign  for  it  at  once,  and  burden  my  con- 
science, and  father's,  and  yours,  with  another  extra  ten 
pounds  and  all  the  interest." 

"  I  sometimes  think,"  Faith  exclaimed  petulantly,  "  we 
should  all  have  been  a  great  deal  happier  in  our  lives  if 
we'd  never  heard  of  that  dreadful  Mr.  Solomons  !  " 


114 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


I   % 


M 


Paul  took  a  more  judicial  view  of  the  situation,  as  became 
his  sex. 

"  I  sometimes  think  so,  too,"  he  answered  after  a  pause. 
*'  But  then,  you've  got  to  remember.  Faith,  that  we  both  of 
of  us  are  what  we  are  now,  wholly  and  solely  through  Mr. 
Solomons.  We  can't  unthink  so  much  of  our  past  as  to 
make  ourselves  mentally  into  what  we  might  have  been  if 
Mr,  Solomons  had  never  at  all  crossed  our  horizon.  We 
must  recollect  that  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Mr.  Solomons  I 
should  never  have  gone  either  to  grammar  school  or  to 
Oxford.  And  if  I'd  never  gone,  you'd  never  have  learnt 
all  that  you've  learnt  from  me.  You'd  never  even  have 
become  a  teacher — now,  would  you  ?  In  a  sort  of  way, 
Faith,  you're  now  a  lady,  and  I'm  a  gentleman.  I  know  we 
are  not  what  the  big  people  at  Hillborough  would  call 
gentlefolk  ;  but  in  the  only  sense  of  the  word  that's  worth 
anything,  we  are  ;  and  that  we  are,  all  depends  upon  Mr. 
Solomons.  So  being  what  we  are,  we  can't  say  now  what 
we  would  have  wished  things  to  be  if  we  had  been  quite 
otherwise." 

"  That's  a  trifle  metaphys'cal,"  Faith  murmured,  smiling. 
"  I  don't  feel  sure  I  follow  it.  But,  perhaps,  after  all,  on 
the  whole,  1  agree  with  you." 

"  Mr.  Solomons  is  a  factor  yoH  can't  eliminate  from  our 
joint  lives,"  Paul  went  on  quietly;  "and  if  we  could 
eliminate  him,  and  all  that  he  implies,  we'd  not  be  our- 
selves. We'd  be  Tom  and  Mary  W^hitehead,  if  you  under- 
stand me." 

"  You  miu^ht  be  Tom,  but  I'd  not  be  Mary,"  Faith 
answered  with  a  not  unbecoming  toss  of  her  head,  for  the 
Whiteheads  in  point  of  fact  were  her  pet  aversion.  "  The 
difference  there  is  something  in  the  fiber.  I  suppose  Mrs. 
Douglas  would  say  it  was  blue  blood  ;  but,  anyhow,  I 
believe  I'm  not  quite  made  of  the  same  stuff  as  she  is." 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 


«iS 


"Why,  there  you're  as  bad  as  Mrs.  Douglas  herself," 
Paul  retorted,  laughing.  "  Who  was  so  precious  democratic 
just  now,  I'd  like  to  know,  about  all  mankind  and  its  varie- 
ties of  circulating  fluid  ?  " 

Faith  laughed  in  return,  but  withdrew  her  hand.  We  all 
of  us  object  to  the  prejudices  of  others,  but  our  own  little 
prejudices  are  so  much  more  sensible,  so  much  more  firmly 
grounded  on  reasonable  distinctions  !  We  don't  like  to 
have  them  too  freely  laughed  at. 

"And  this  Yankee  girl  you  were  telling  us  about  last 
night,"  Faith  went  on  after  a  pause.  "  Was  she  very  nice  ? 
As  nice  as  she  was  rich  ?  And  did  you  and  she  fiirt  desper- 
ately together  ? " 

Paul's  smiling  face  grew  suddenly  grave. 

"  Well,  Faith,"  he  said,  "  to  tell  you  the  truth — you  may 
think  it  an  awfully  presumptuous  thing  for  a  fellow  like  me 
to  say,  but  I  really  believe  it — if  I  were  to  take  pains  about 
going  the  right  way  to  work,  I  might  get  that  Yankee  girl 
to  say  Yes  to  me." 

"  Most  probably,"  Faith  answered,  quite  undiscomposed 
by  this  (to  Paul)  most  startling  announcement. 

"  You're  laughing  at  me,"  Paul  cried,  drawing  back  a 
little  sharply.  "  You  think  me  a  conceited  prig  for 
imagining  it." 

"  Not  at  all,"  Faith  replied,  with  supreme  sisterly  confi- 
dence in  her  brother's  attractions.  "On  the  contrary,  I 
should  think  nothing  on  earth  could  be  more  perfectly 
natural.  There's  no  reason  that  I  can  see  why  you  need  be 
so  absurdly  modest  about  your  own  position.  You're  tall, 
you're  strong,  you're  well-built,  you're  good-looking,  and, 
though  it's  me  that  says  it  as  oughtn't  to  say  it,  you're 
every  inch  a  gentleman.  You've  been  well-educated  ; 
you're  an  Oxford  man,  accustomed  to  mix  with  the  best 
blood  in   England  ;  yo'j're  cleverer  than  anybody  else  I 


f^-'l 


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r//£  SC.tLLYlVAG. 


ever  met ;  and,  last  of  all,  you're  the  heir  to  a  baronetcy. 
Heaven  knows  I'm  the  least  likely  person  in  the  world  to 
overestimate  the  worth  or  importance  of ///<//;  but,  after  all, 
it  always  counts  for  something.  If  all  those  combined  at- 
tractions aren't  enough  to  bring  down  the  American  girl  on 
her  knees,  where,  for  goodness'  sake,  does  she  expect  to 
find  her  complete  Atlonis?" 

"  I  wish  1  felt  half  as  confident  about  myself  as  you  do 
about  me,"  Paul  murmured,  half-ashamed. 

"If  you  did  you  wouldn't  be  half  as  nice  as  you  are  now, 
my  dear.  It's  your  diffidence  that  puts  the  comble  on  your 
perfections,  as  dear  old  Clarice  would  say.  I'm  so  glad 
you  saw  her.     She'd  be  so  proud  and  delighted." 

"  And  yet  it  was  awkward,"  Paul  said  reflectively. 

"  I  don't  doubt  it  was  awkward,"  his  sister  replied.  '*  It's 
always  awkward  to  mix  up  your  classes." 

"  I'm  not  so  much  ashamed,"  Paul  went  on  with  a  sigh, 
"  as  uncomfortable  and  doubtful.  It  isn't  snobbishness,  I 
think,  that  makes  me  feel  so  ;  but,  you  see,  you  don't  know 
how  other  people  will  treat  them.  And  you  hate  having  to 
be  always  obtruding  on  people  whose  v;hole  ideas,  and  sym- 
pathies, and  feelings,  are  restricted  to  one  class  the  fact 
that  you  yourself  are  just  equally  bound  up  with  another. 
It  seems  like  assuming  a  constant  attitude  of  needless 
antagonism." 

"  Is  she  pretty?"  Faith  put  in  abruptly,  not  heeding  his 
explanation. 

"  Who  ?  Clarice  ?  As  pretty  as  ever,  and  not  one  day 
older." 

"  I  didn't  mean  her,''  Faith  interposed  with  a  smile.  "  I 
meant  the  other  one — the  American." 

"  Oh,  her.  Yes,  in  her  way,  no  doubt.  Mignonne,  slen- 
der, pallid,  and  golden-haired.  She  looks  as  if  a  breath 
would  blow  her  away.     Yet  she's  full  of  spirit,  and  cheek, 


>  !l' 


i4^ 


n 


BROTHER  AND   SISTER. 


117 


and  audacity,  for  all  that.  She  said  to  me  herself  one  day, 
'I'm  a  little  one,  but,  oh  my  !  '  and  I'm  sure  she  meant  it. 
The  man  that  marries  her  will  have  somebody  to  tackle." 

"And  do  you  like  her,  Paul  ?  " 

Paul  looked  up  in  surprise,  not  at  the  words,  but  at  thr 
impressive,  half-regretful  way  in  which  they  were  spoken. 

"  No,"  he  said.  "  Faith,  if  you  ask  me  point-blank,  she's 
a  nice  little  girl — pretty  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  ;  but  I 
don't  care  for  her." 

'*  And  will  you  take  pains  about  going  the  right  way  to 
make  her  say  K(r.f  to  you  ? " 

**  Faith  !  How  can  you  !  I  could  never  marry  her. 
Rich  as  she  is,  and  with  all  Mr.  Solomons'  bills  at  my  back, 
I  could  never  marry  her." 

There  was  a  minute's  pause.  Then  Faith  said  again^ 
looking  up  in  his  face,  "  So  the  revolt  has  come.  It's  come 
at  last.  I've  been  waiting  for  it  and  expecting  it.  For 
months  and  months  I've  been  waiting  and  watching. 
You've  found  yourself  face  to  face  with  the  facts  at  last, 
and  your  conscience  is  too  strong  for  you.  I  knew  it 
would  be." 

"  The  revolt  has  come,"  Paul  answered  with  an  effort. 
"  I  found  it  out  last  week  at  Mentone  alone,  and  in  my  own 
mind  it's  all  settled  now.  It's  a  terrible  thing  to  have  to 
say,  Faith,  and  I've  hardly  worked  out  all  it  entails  yet  ; 
but,  come  what  may,  I  cant  marry  an  heiress." 

Faith  said  nothing,  but  she  rose  from  her  seat,  and,  put- 
ting her  two  hands  to  his  warm,  red  cheeks,  kissed  him 
soundly  with  sisterly  fervor. 

"  I  know  what  it  means,  Paul,"  she  said,  stooping  over 
him  tenderly.  '*  I  know  what  a  struggle  it  must  have  cost 
you  to  make  up  your  mind — you  on  whom  it's  been 
enjoined  as  a  sort  of  sacred  duty  for  so  many  years  past 
by  father  and  Mr.  Solomons.     But  I  knew  when  once  you 


?;( 


ii8 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


\  \ 


came  to  stand  face  to  face  with  it  you'd  see  through  the 
sham,  and  dispel  the  illusion.  You  could  never,  never  so 
sell  yourself  into  slavery,  and  a  helpless  woman  into  gross 
degradation." 

"  It  will  kill  father  whenever  I  have  to  tell  him,"  Paul 
murmured  in  return.  "  It  will  be  the  deathknell  of  all  his 
hopes  and  ideals." 

"But  you  needn't  tell  him — at  present  at  least,"  Faith 
answered  wisely.  "  Put  off  the  worst  till  you  find  it's 
inevitable.  After  all,  it's  only  a  guess  that  the  American 
would  take  you.  Most  men  don't  marry  at  twenty-one. 
And  you  won't  be  twenty  one  till  to-morrow.  You've  years 
before  you  yet  to  make  up  your  mind  in.  You  can  earn 
money  meanwhile  and  repay  it  slowly.  The  disillusion- 
ment may  come  by  slow  degrees.  There's  no  need  to 
spring  it  upon  him  at  one  swoop,  as  you  sprang  it  upon  me 
unexpectedly  this  minute." 

"  I  can  never  earn  it ;  I  can  never  repay  it,"  Paul 
answered  despondently.  "  It's  far  too  heavy  a  weight  for 
a  man  to  begin  life  upon.  I  shall  sink  under  the  burden, 
but  I  shall  never  get  rid  of  it." 

**  Wait  and  see,"  Faith  answered.  "  For  the  present, 
there's  no  need  for  saying  anything.  To-morrow  Mr. 
Solomons  will  want  you  to  sign  your  name  afresh.  But 
don't  be  foolish  enough  to  tell  him  this.  Why,  goodness 
gracious,  there's  the  bell  !  I  must  hurry  down  at  once. 
And  how  cold  it  is  up  here  on  the  hilltop  !  " 

Halfway  down  the  slope  she  turned  and  spoke  once  more. 
"  And  the  other  girl,"  she  said  :  "  Nea  Blair  ?  The  English 
one?" 

"  She's  very,  very  nice,"  Paul  answered  with  warmth. 
"  She's  a  really  good  girl.     I  like  her  immensely." 

"  Who  is  she  ? "  Faith  asked  in  a  tremulous  voice. 

"  Her  father's  a  clergyman  somewhere  down  in  Cornwall." 


THE   COMING  OF  AGE   OF   THE  HEIR. 


119 


"I  should  hate  her,"  Faith  cried.  "T  know  T  should 
hate  her.  1  never  can  bear  grand  girls  like  that.  If  this 
is  one  of  that  sort,  I  know  I  should  hate  her.  The  Ameri- 
can I  could  stand — their  ways  are  not  our  ways  ;  and  we 
have  the  better  of  them  in  some  things ;  but  an  English- 
woman like  that — I  know  I  could  never,  never  endure  her." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  Paul  answered.  And  he  looked  at  her 
tenderly. 


'  ' 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


THE   COMING    OF    AGE    OF    THE    HEIR    OF    THE   TITLE. 


Next  morning  was  Paul's  twenty-first  birthday.  For 
that  important  occasion  he  had  hurried  home  to  England 
three  days  before  his  term  at  Oxford  began  ;  for  Mr.  Solo- 
mons was  anxious  to  bind  him  down  firmly  at  the  earliest 
possible  moment  to  repay  all  the  sums  borrowed  on  his 
account  by  his  father  during  his  infancy  from  the  very 
begin  ling.  To  be  sure,  they  had  all  been  expended  on 
necessaries,  and  if  the  sturdy  infant  himself  would  not  pay, 
it  would  always  be  possible  to  fall  back  upon  his  father. 
But  then,  what  use  was  that  as  a  security,  Mr.  Solomons 
asked  himself.  No,  no  ;  he  wanted  Paul's  own  hand  and 
seal  to  all  the  documents  hereinafter  recapitulated,  on  the 
date  of  his  coming  of  age,  as  a  guarantee  for  future  repay- 
ment. 

The  occasion,  indeed,  was  properly  celebrated  in  the 
Gascoyne  household  with  all  due  solemnity.  The  baronet 
himself  wore  his  Sunday  best,  with  the  carefully  brushed 
tall  hat  in  which  he  always  drove  summer  visitors  to  church 
in  the  Hillborough  season,  and  at  ten  of  the  clock  precisely 
he  and  Paul  repaired,  with  a  church-going  air,  as  is  the  habit 
of  their  class  (viewed  not  as  a  baronet,  but  as  petite  hour- 


■1 


I 


I  I 


1 1 


X30 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


geoisie)  whenever  a  legal  function  has  to  be  performed,  to 
the  dingy,  stingy,  gloomy-looking  house  where  Mr.  Solo- 
mons abode  in  the  High  Street  of  Hillborough. 

Mr.  Solomons,  too,  for  his  part,  hail  risen  in  every  way 
to  the  dignity  of  the  occasion.  He  had  to  do  business  with 
a  real  live  baronet  and  his  eldest  son  ;  and  he  had  pre- 
pared to  receive  his  distinguished  guests  and  clients  with 
becoming  hospitality.  A  decanter  of  brown  sherry  and  a 
plate  of  plain  cake  stood  upon  the  table  by  the  dusty 
window  of  the  estate  agent's  office  ;  a  bouquet  of  laures- 
tinus  and  early  forced  wallflowers  adorned  the  one  vase  on 
the  wooden  chimney-piece,  and  a  fancy  waistcoat  of  the 
most  ornate  design  decorated  Mr.  Solomons'  own  portly 
person.  Mr.  Lionel,  too,  had  come  down  from  town  to  act 
as  witness  and  general  adviser,  and  to  watch  the  case,  so  to 
speak,  on  his  own  behalf,  as  next-of-kin  and  heir-in-law  to 
the  person  most  interested  in  the  whole  proceeding.  Mr. 
Lionel's  hair  was  about  as  curly  and  as  oleaginous  as  usual, 
but  the  flower  in  his  button  hole  was  even  nobler  in  pro- 
portions than  was  his  wont  on  weekdays,  and  the  perfume 
that  exhaled  from  the  silk  pocket-handkerchief  was  more 
redolent  than  ever  of  that  fervid  musk  which  is  dear  to  the 
Oriental  nervous  organization. 

"Come  in,  Sir  Emery,"  Mr.  Solomons  observed,  rubbing 
his  hands  with  great  unction,  as  the  cabdriver  paused  for 
a  second  respectfully  at  his  creditor's  door.  Mr.  Solomons 
called  his  distinguished  client  plain  Gascoyne  on  ordinary 
occasions  when  they  met  on  terms  of  employer  and  cab- 
man, but  whenever  these  solemn  functions  of  high  finance 
had  to  be  performed  he  allowed  himself  the  inexpensive 
luxury  of  rolling  that  superfluous  title  as  for  a  special 
treat  on  his  appreciative  palate  as  a  ronnoisseur  rolls  a 
good  glass  of  Burgundy. 

Paul  grew  hot  in  the  face  at  the  unwelcome  sound — for 


THE  COMING  OF  AGE  OF   THE  HEIR. 


lat 


to  Paul  that  hateful  baronetcy  had  grown  into  a  perfect 
hete  noire — but  Sir  Emery  advanced  by  shuffling  steps  with 
a  diffident  air  into  the  middle  of  the  room,  finding  obvious 
difficuliies  as  to  the  carriage  of  his  hands,  and  then 
observed,  in  a  sheepish  tone,  as  he  bowed  awkardly  : 

"  Good-day,  Mr.  Solomons,  sir.  Fine  mornin',  Mr. 
Lionel." 

"  It  is  a  fine  morning,"  Mr.  Lionel  condescended  to 
observe  in  reply,  with  a  distant  nod;  "but  devilish  cold, 
aint  it?"  Then  extending  his  sleek  white  hand  to  Paul 
with  a  more  gracious  salute,  "How  de  do,  Gascoync  ? 
Had  a  jolly  time  over  yonder  at  Mentone  ? " 

Lor  Mr.  Lionel  never  forgot  that  Paul  Gascoyne  had 
been  to  Oxford  and  was  heir  to  a  baronetc)',  and  that, 
therefore,  social  capital  might,  as  likely  as  not,  hereafter 
be  made  out  of  him. 

"  Thank  you,"  Paul  answered,  with  a  slight  inclination 
of  his  head  and  a  marked  tone  of  distaste,  *'  I  enjoyed 
myself  very  much  on  the  Riviera.  It's  a  beautiful  place, 
and  the  people  were  so  very  kind  to  me." 

For  Paul  on  his  side  had  always  a  curious  double  feeling 
toward  Lionel  Solomons.  On  the  one  hand,  he  never 
forgot  that  Lionel  was  his  uncle's  nephew,  and  that  once 
upon  a  time,  when  he  played  as  a  child  in  his  father's  yard, 
he  used  to  regard  Lionel  as  a  very  grand  young  gentleman 
indeed.  And  on  the  other  hand,  he  couldn't  conceal  from 
himself  the  patent  fact,  especially  since  he  had  mixed  in 
the  society  of  gentlemen  on  equal  terms  at  Oxford,  that 
Lionel  Solomons  was  a  peculiarly  offensive  kind  of  snob — 
the  snob  about  town  who  thinks  he  knows  a  thing  or  two 
as  to  the  world  at  large,  and  talks  with  glib  familiarity 
about  everyone  everywhere  whose  name  is  bandied  about 
in  the  shrill  mouths  of  London  gossip. 

Mr.   Solomons  motioned  Sir  Emery  graciously  into  a 


\      \\ 


I! 


I    I; 


li    J 


I 


las 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


II  • 


•I  • 


chair.  "  Sit  down,  Paul,"  he  said,  turning  to  his  younger 
client.     '*  A  glass  of  wine  this  cold  morning.  Sir  Emery  ?" 

"1  thank  you  kindly,  sir,"  the  baronet  responded,  taking 
it  up  as  he  spoke.  "'Krc's  your  very  good  'ealth,  Mr. 
Solomons,  an*  my  respex  to  Mr.  Lionel." 

Mr.  Solomons  poured  out  a  glass  for  Paul,  and  then  two 
more,  in  solemn  silence,  for  hiniself  and  his  nephew.  The 
drinking  of  wine  has  a  sort  f)f  serious  ceremonial  impor- 
tance with  certain  persons  of  Mr.  Solomons'  character. 
After  that  he  plunged  for  a  while  into  general  conversation 
on  the  atmospheric  conditions  and  the  meteorological  prob- 
abilities for  the  immediaie  future — a  subject  which  led 
round  naturally  by  graceful  steps  to  the  political  state  of 
this  kingdom,  and  the  chances  of  a  defeat  for  the  existing 
ministry  over  the  bill  for  the  county  government  of  Dublin. 
Mr.  Solomons  considered  it  becomnig  on  these  State  occa- 
sions not  to  start  too  abruptly  on  the  question  of  business  : 
a  certain  subdued  delicacy  of  consideration  for  his  clients' 
feelings  made  him  begin  the  interview  on  the  broader  and, 
so  to  speak,  neutral  basis  of  a  meeting  between  gentlemen. 

At  last,  however,  when  the  sherry  and  the  ministry  were 
both  comfortably  disposed  of,  and  Sir  Emery  had  signified 
his  satisfaction  and  acquiescence  in  either  process,  Mr. 
Solomons  dexterously  and  gracefully  introduced  the  real 
subject  before  the  house  with  a  small  set  speech.  ••  I 
think.  Sir  Emery,"  he  said,  putting  his  square  bullet-head  a 
little  on  one  side,  "  you  intimated  just  now  that  you  wished 
to  confer  with  me  on  a  matter  of  business  ? " 

"Yes,  sir,"  the  cabdrivtr  answered,  growing  suddenly 
hot,  and  speaking  with  a  visible  effort  of  eloquence.  *'  My 
son,  Paul,  as  you  know,  sir,  have  come  of  age  to-day,  and 
it's  our  desire,  Mr.  Solomons,  if-so-be-as  it's  ekally  con- 
venient to  you,  to  go  together  over  them  there  little 
advances  you've  been  kind  enough  to  make  from  time  to 


THE  COMiya  OF  AGE  OF  TlfF  UFtK. 


^n 


lime  for  Paul's  ecldication,  if  I  may  so  term  it,  an'  to  set  'cm 
all  right  and  straight,  in  the  niamicr  o'  speakin',  by  givin' 
Paul's  own  acknowledgment  for  'cm  in  black  an'  white,  now 
he's  no  longer  a  minor  but  his  own  master," 

It  was  a  great  triumph  for  the  British  baronet  to  stumble 
through  so  long  a  sentence  unhurt,  without  a  single 
halt,  or  a  lapse  of  consciousness,  and  lie  felt  justly  proud 
when  he  got  fairly  to  the  end  of  it.  Frequently  as  lie  had 
rehearsed  it  to  himself  in  bed  the  night  before,  he  never 
thought  that  when  the  moment  for  firing  it  off  in  actual 
practice  really  arrived  he  would  have  got  pat  through  it  all 
with  such  distinguished  success. 

Mr.  Solomons  smiled  a  smile  of  grateful  recognition,  and 
bowed,  with  one  hand  spread  carelessly  over  his  ample  and 
expansive  waistcoat.  "If  I've  been  of  any  service  to  you 
and  your  son.  Sir  Kniery,"  he  answered  with  humility,  not 
unicnipered  by  conscious  rectitude  and  the  sense  of  a  gen- 
erous action  well  performed  (at  twenty  per  cent,  interest 
and  incidentals)  "I'm  more  than  repaid,  I'm  sure,  for  all 
my  time  and  trouble." 

•'And  now,"  Mr.  Lionel  remarked,  with  a  curl  of  his  full 
Oriental  lips  under  the  budding  mustache,  "let's  get  to 
business." 

To  business  Mr.  Solomons  thereupori  at  once  addressed 
himself  with  congenial  speed.  He  brought  out  from  their 
pigeon-hole  in  the  safe  (with  a  decorous  show  of  having  to 
hunt  for  them  first  among  his  multifarious  papers,  though 
he  had  put  them  handy  before  his  client  entered)  the 
bundle  of  acknowledgments  tied  up  in  pink  tape,  and  duly 
signed,  sealed,  and  delivered  by  Paul  and  his  father. 
"  These,"  he  said,  unfolding  them  with  studious  care,  and 
recapitulating  them  one  by  one,  "  are  the  documents  in  the 
case.  If  you  please,  Mr.  Paul " — he  had  never  called  him 
Mr.  Paul  before,  but  he  wai  a  free  man  now,  and  this  was 


1^4 


THE   aCAl.LYWAO, 


I 


II 


V\ 


f 

"1 1 

,     1 

i 

1 

t 

1 

1 

1 

1 

1   ^ '    1 

1 

1    '  ''■•    i 

'     'i'i 

business — ••  we'll  go  over  them  together  and  check  their 
correctness." 

•*  I  have  the  figures  all  down  liere  in  my  pocket-book,*' 
Paul  answered  hastily,  for  he  was  anxious  to  shorten  this 
unpleasant  interview  as  much  as  possible,  **  will  you  just 
j»lance  at  their  numbers  and  see  if  they're  accurate?" 

lint  Mr.  Solomons  was  not  to  be  so  put  off.  For  his  part, 
indeed,  he  was  quite  otherwise  minded.  I'his  ceremony 
was  to  him  a  vastly  agreeable  one,  and  he  was  anxious 
rather  to  prolong  it,  and  to  increase  his  sense  of  its  deep 
importance  by  every  conceivable  lo<>al  detail  in  his  power. 

"Kxcuse  me,"  he  said  blandly,  taking  up  the  paper  and 
laying  it  open  with  ostentatious  scrupulousness.  "This  Is 
law,  and  we  must  be  strictly  lawyer-like.  Will  you  kindly 
look  over  the  contents  of  this  docnmeiit  and  see  whether  it 
tallies  wiih  your  recollection  ?" 

Paul  took  it  up  and  resigned  himself  with  a  sigh  to  the 
unpleasant  ordeal.  '*  Quite  rij;ht,"  he  answered,  handing  it 
back  again  formally. 

•'  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  initial  it  on  the  back,  then, 
with  dale  assigned  ?"  Mr.  Solomons  asked. 

Paul  did  as  he  was  bid,  in  wondering  silence. 

Mr,  Solomons  took  up  the  next  in  f)rder,  and  then  the 
third,  and  after  that;  the  fourth,  and  so  r)n  through  all  that 
hateful  series  of  bills  and  renewals.  Kvery  item  Paul  ac- 
knowledged in  solemn  form,  and  each  was  duly  handed 
over  for  the  inspection  as  he  did  so  of  Mr.  Lionel,  who 
also  initialed  them  in  his  quality  of  witness. 

At  last,  the  whole  lot  was  fairly  disposed  of,  and  the 
dreadful  total  alone  now  stared  Paul  in  the  face  with  its 
blank  insolvency.  Then  Mr.  Solomons  took  from  his  desk 
yet  another  paper — this  time  a  solemn  document  in  due 
legal  form,  which  he  proceeded  to  read  aloud  in  a  serious 
tone  and  with  deep  impressiveness.     Of '*  this  indenture" 


THE  COMIS'G  Oh   ACE  OF   THE   HEIR. 


»^S 


and  itJ  contents  Paul  could  only  femeniber  afterward  lliai 
It  contained  many  allusions  to  Sir  FCnicry  (iascoyne,  of 
I'lowden's  Court,  Hillboroujjh,  in  the  ('oun'.y  of  Surrey, 
baronet,  and  I'aul  Gascoynt',  of  ('litist  Chiircli,  in  the  Uni- 
versity of  Oxford,  Rcntlonian,  of  the  first  pari,  as  well  as  to 
Jiidah  Prince  Solomons,  of  llifth  street,  Hillborough  afore- 
s.iiil,  auctioneer  and  estate  agent  of  the  second  part  ;  and 
iliat  it  purported  to  witness,  with  many  unnecessary  circum- 
locutions  and  subterfuges  of  the  usual  legal  sort,  to  the 
simple  fact  that  the  two  persons  of  the  first  part  agreed  and 
rousented,  jointly  and  severally,  to  pay  the  person  of  the  sec- 
ond part  a  certain  gross  lump-sum,  which  so  fa*  as  human 
probability  went  they  had  no  sort  of  prospect  or  reasonable 
chance  of  ever  paying.  However,  it  was  perfectly  useless 
to  say  so  to  Mr.  Solomons  at  that  exact  moment  ;  for  the 
l)leasure  which  he  derived  from  the  perusal  of  the  bond  was 
too  intense  to  permit  the  intervention  of  any  other  feeling. 
So  when  the  document  had  been  duly  read  and  digested, 
Paul  took  up  the  pen  and  did  as  he  was  bid,  signing 
opposite  a  small  red  wafer  on  the  face  of  the  instrument, 
and  then  remarking,  as  he  haiulcd  it  back  to  Mr.  Solomons, 
with  his  finger  on  the  wafer,  in  accordance  with  instructions, 
"  I  deliver  this  as  my  act  and  deed  " — a  sentence  which 
seemed  to  afford  the  person  of  the  second  part  the  pro- 
foundest  and  most  obviously  heartfelt  enjoyment. 

And  well  it  might  indeed,  for  no  loophole  of  escape 
was  left  to  Paul  and  his  father  anywhere.  They  had 
hound  themselves  down,  body  ami  soul,  to  be  Mr. 
Solomons'  slaves  and  journeyman  hands  till  they  had  paid 
him  in  full  for  every  stiver  of  the  amount  to  the  uttermost 
farthing. 

When  all  the  other  signing  and  witnessing  had  been 
<lone,  and  Paul  had  covenanted  by  solemn  attestations 
never  to  plead  infancy,  error,  or  non-indebtedness,  \[r.  Sol- 


f 


136 


THE   SCALiYWAG. 


\\v\ 


!      ■ '.1' 


li'  i 


omons  sighed  a  sigh  of  mingled  regret  and  relief  as  he  ob- 
served once  more, 

"  And  now,  Paul,  you  owe  the  seven-and-six  for  the  stamp 
you'll  notice." 

Paul  pulled  out  his  purse  and  paid  the  sum  demanded 
without  a  passing  murmur.  He  had  been  so  long  accus- 
tomed to  these  constant  petty  exactions  that  he  took  them 
now  almost  for  granted,  and  hardly  even  reflected  upon  the 
curious  fact  that  the  sum  in  which  he  was  now  indebted 
amounted  to  more  than  double  the  original  lump  he  had 
actually  received,  without  counting  these  perpetual  minor 
drawbacks. 

Mr.  Solomons  folded  up  the  document  carefully,  and  re- 
placed it  in  its  pigeon-hole  in  the  iron  safe. 

"  That  finishes  the  past,"  he  said  ;  "  there  we've  got  our 
security,  Leo.  And  for  the  future,  Mr.  Paul,  is  there  any 
temporary  assistance  you  need  just  now  to  return  to  Oxford 
with  ? " 

A  terrible  light  burst  across  Paul's  soul.  How  on  earth 
was  he  to  live  till  he  took  his  degree  ?  Now  that  he  had 
fully  made  up  his  mind  that  he  couldn't  and  wouldn't  marry 
an  heiress,  how  could  he  go  on  accepting  money  from  Mr. 
Solomons,  which  was  really  advanced  on  the  remote  secu- 
rity of  that  supposed  contingency  ?  Clearly,  to  do  so  would 
be  dishonest  and  unjust.  And  yet,  if  he  didn't  accept  it 
how  could  he  ev<ir  take  his  degree  at  all  ?  And  if  he  diOn't 
take  his  degree  how  could  he  possibly  hope  to  earn  anything 
anywhere,  either  to  keep  himself  alive  or  reoay  Mr.  Solo- 
mons? 

Strange  to  say,  this  terrible  dilemma  had  never  before 
occurred  to  his  youthful  intelligence.  He  had  to  meet  it,  and 
solved  it  offhand  now,  without  a  single  minute  for  con- 
sderation. 

It  would  not  have  been  surprising,  with  the  training  he 


THE   COMING  OF  AGE  OF   THE  HEIR. 


127 


had  had,  if  Paul,  accustomed  to  live  upon  Mr.  Solomons' 
loans,  as  most  young  men  live  upon  their  father's  resources, 
had  salved  his  conscience  by  this  clear  plea  of  necessity,  and 
had  decided  that  to  take  his  degree  anyhow  was  of  the  first 
importance  both  for  himself  and  Mr.  Solomons. 

But  he  didn't.  In  an  instant  he  had  thought  all  these 
thmgs  over,  and,  being  now  a  man  and  a  free  agent,  had 
decided  in  a  flash  what  course  of  action  his  freedom  im- 
posed upon  him. 

With  trembling  lips  he  answered  firmly,  "  No,  thank  you, 
Mr.  Solomons  ;  I've  enough  in  hand  for  my  needs  for  the 
present."     And  then  he  relapsed  into  troubled  silence. 

What  followed  he  hardly  noticed  much.  There  was  more 
political  udk,  and  more  sherry  all  round,  with  plum  cake 
accompaniment  and  serious  faces.  And  then  they  rose  to 
leave  :  Paul  thinking  to  himself  that  now  the  crisis  had 
come  at  last,  and  he  could  never  return  to  his  beloved  Ox- 
ford. Those  three  years  of  his  life  would  all  be  thrown 
away.  He  must  miss  his  degree — and  break  his  father's 
heart  with  the  disappointment. 

But  Sir  Emery  observed  as  he  reached  the  open  air,  rub- 
bing his  hands  together  in  the  profundity  of  his  admiration, 
"'E's  a  rare  clever  chap,  to  be  sure,  Mr.  Solomons.  Barr 
and  Wilkie  aint  nothin'  by  the  side  of  him.  Why,  'e  read 
ihem  documents  out  aloud  so  as  no  lawyer  couldn't  'a' 
d rawed  'em  up  better." 

And  Mr.  Lionel,  within,  was  observing  to  his  uncle, 
"  Well,  you  are  a  simple  one,  and  no  mistake,  to  let  that 
fellow  Gascoyne  see  where  you  keep  his  acknowledgments  ! 
For  my  part,  I  wouldn't  trust  any  man  alive  to  know  where 
I  keep  any  papers  of  importance." 


f 


I  I 


i 


xaS 


THE  SCAIIYIVAG. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


COMMITTEE   OF   SUITLY. 


I         A 


\   \ 


I       I 


!   I 


When  Paul  got  home,  he  put  his  dilemma  at  lunchtime 
before  Faith,  who  went  out  with  him  once  more  on  the 
Knoll  to  discuss  it. 

"And  what  do  you  mean  to  do  now  ? "  Ftith  asked,  as 
soon  as  he'd  finished  outpouring  his  difficulties  into  her 
sympathetic  ear.     "Anyhow,,  you  must  go  back  to  Oxford." 

**  I  can't,"  Paul  answered  shortly  ;  "  I've  n  7  m  :\r  to  go 
with." 

"  You've  Thistleton's  tenner,"  Faith  replied  with  simple 
straightforwardness,  unconscious  of  the  impropriety  of 
such  language  on  the  lips  of  the  female  instructor  of  youth; 
for  she  had  seen  so  little  c^  anybody  but  Paul  that  Paul's 
phrases  came  naturally  to  the  tip  of  her  tongue  whenever 
she  discussed  the  things  that  pertain  to  men,  and  more 
especially  to  Oxford.  "  That'll  pay  your  way  up  and  settle 
you  in,  at  any  rate." 

"  But  my  battels  !  "  Paul  objected.  '  I  won't  have  any- 
thing to  meet  my  battels  with." 

Faith  was  too  well  up  in  University  language  not  to  !  e 
well  aware  by  this  time  that  "  battels "  are  the  college 
charges  for  food,  lodging,  sundries,  and  tuition,  so  she  made 
no  bones  about  that  technical  phrase,  but  answered  boldly  : 
"Well,  the  battels  must  take  care  of  ther-^-^ives  ;  they  won't 
be  due  till  the  beginning  of  next  term,  and  meanwhile  you 
can  live  on  tick,  as  all  the  big  people  do  at  Hillborough, 
can't  you  ? " 

"  Faith  !  "  Paul  cried,  looking  down  into  her  face  aglipf  ^ 
"  Et  tUy  Brute !  You  who  always  pitch  into  them  so  for 
not  paying  their  little  bills  promptly  ! " 


X 


.:■  h 


COMMITTEE   OF  SUPPLY. 


129 


"Oh,  I  don't  really  mean  that !''  Faith  answered,  color- 
ing up,  and  somewhat  shocked  herself  at  her  own  levity  in 
this  fall  from  gract ;  for,  to  Faith,  the  worst  of  all  human 
sins  was  living  on  credit.  "  1  only  meant,  can't  you  try  to 
}>et  some  more  private  pupils  in  the  course  of  term-time, 
and  stand  your  chance  at  the  end  of  being  able  to  pay  your 
battels  ? " 

Paul  reflected  profoundly.  *'  It's  a  precious  poor 
chance  !  "  he  responded  with  perfect  frankness.  '*  There 
aren't  many  fellows  who  care  to  read  nowadays  with  an 
undergraduate.  And  besides,  it  spoils  a  man's  own  pros- 
pects for  his  examinations  so  much  if  he  has  to  go  teaching 
and  reading  at  once — driving  two  teams  abreast,  as  learner 
and  tutor." 

•'  It  does,"  Faith  answered.  "  That's  obvious  of  course. 
But  then,  you've  got  to  do  something,  you  know,  to  keep 
the  ball  rolling." 

It's  a  great  thing  for  a  man  to  have  an  unpractical 
woman  to  spur  him  on.  It  makes  him  boldly  attempt  the 
impossible.  So  in  the  end,  after  much  discussing  of  pros 
and  cons  between  them,  it  was  finally  decided  that  Paul 
must  go  up  to  Oxford  as  usual,  and  do  his  best  to  hang  on 
somehow  for  the  present.  If  the  worst  came  to  the  worst, 
as  Faith  put  it  succinctly,  he  must  make  a  clean  breast  of 
it  all  to  Mr.  Solomons.  But  if  not,  he  might  manage  by 
hook  or  by  crook  to  earn  enough  money  to  pull  through 
two  terms  ;  for  in  two  terms  more  he  would  take  his  degree, 
and  then  he  might  really  begin  to  work  for  money. 

It  was  a  desperate  attempt — how  desperate  those  only 
know  who  have  themselves  been  through  it.  But  Paul 
resolved  to  try,  and  the  resolve  itself  had  in  it  a  gentle 
touch  of  the  heroic. 

Next  day,  in  fact,  he  bade  farewell  to  Faith  and  his 
mother,  and  returned,  vvuh  his  ten  pound  note,  to  Oxford, 


i^o 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


I-  ': 


I         i    ! 


Ten  pounds  is  a  slender  provision  for  a  term's  expenses, 
but  it  would  enable  him  at  least  to  look  about  him  for  the 
moment,  and  see  what  chances  arose  of  taking  pupils. 

And,  indeed,  that  very  night  fortune  favored  him,  as  it 
sometimes  favors  these  forlorn  hopes  of  workaday  heroes. 
To  his  great  surprise,  Thistleton  came  round  after  all  to 
his  rooms,  to  ask  if  Paul  would  take  him  on  for  the  term 
as  a  private  pupil.  *'  It's  to  read  this  time,"  he  explained, 
with  his  usual  frankness,  "  not  to  satisfy  the  governor.  1 
really  must  get  through  my  Mods  at  last,  and  if  I  don't 
Ic  '  ^'  irp,  I  shall  be  plowed  again,  and  that'd  set  the 
govt  r's  back  up,  so  that  he'd  cut  my  allowance,  for  he 
won't  stand  my  failing  again,  the  governor  won't,  that's 
certain."  With  great  joy,  therefore,  Paul  consented  to 
take  him  on  for  the  term,  and  so  double  that  modest 
tenner. 

Thistleton  stopped  talking  long  and  late  in  his  friend's 
rooms,  and  about  twelve  o'clock  one  of  those  confidential 
fits  came  over  Paul  which  are  apt  to  come  over  young  men, 
and  others,  when  they  sit  up  late  into  the  small  hours  of 
the  night  over  the  smoldering  embers  of  a  dying  fire.  He 
had  impressed  upon  Thistleton  more  than  once  already  the 
absolute  need  for  his  making  a  little  money,  and  his  con- 
sequent desire  to  obtain  pupils;  and  Thistleton  in  return 
had  laughingly  chaffed  him  about  those  mysterious  claims 
to  which  Paul  was  always  so  vaguely  alluding.  Then  Paul 
had  waxed  more  confidential  and  friendly  still,  and  had 
imparted  to  Thistleton's  sympathetic  ear  the  fact  that,  if  he 
didn't  succeed  in  earning  his  own  living  for  the  next  two 
terms,  he  would  be  obliged  to  leave  Oxford  without  taking 
his  degree  at  all,  and  so  cut  off  all  hope  of  making  a  liveli- 
hood in  future  and  satisfying  the  mysterious  claims  in 
question.  How  so  ?  Thistleton  asked  ;  and  Paul  answered 
him  in  guarded  phrase  that  his  means  of  subsistence  had^ 


.  •^■gigufimiff  1  wiffi>^ 


COMMITTEE   OF  SUPPLY. 


U^ 


since  his  return  from  Mentone,  been  suddenly  and  quite 
unexpectedly  cut  from  under  him. 

"What!  The  respected  bart.'s  not  dead,  is  he?"  the 
blond  young  man  asked,  opening  his  big  blue  eyes  as  wide 
as  he  could  open  them. 

Paul  replied  with  a  somewhat  forced  smile  that  the 
respected  bart.  still  continued  to  walk  this  solid  earth,  and 
that  his  disappearance,  indeed,  from  the  mortal  scene  would 
have  produced  very  little  effect  one  way  or  the  other  upon 
his  son's  fortunes. 

Then  Thistieton  grew  more  curious  and  inquisitive  still, 
and  Paul  more  confidential  ;  till  the  end  of  it  all  was  that 
Paul  gradually  unfolded  to  his  friend  the  whole  of  Mr. 
Solomons'  scheme  for  his  education  and  future  life,  with 
the  financial  details  of  yesterday's  indenture,  and  the  sup- 
posed way  in  which  he  was  himself  to  discharge  thereafter 
those  serious  obligations.  When  Thistieton  heard  the 
entire  story  he  would  have  laughed  outright  had  it  not  been 
for  the  obvious  seriousness  of  Paul's  dilemma.  To  borrow 
money  on  the  strength  of  a  prospective  heiress  unknown 
was  really  too  ridiculous.  But  as  soon  as  he  began  fully  to 
grasp  the  whole  absurd  incident,  its  graver  as  well  as  its 
more  comic  aspects,  his  indignation  got  the  better  of  his 
amusement  at  the  episode.  He  declared  roundly,  in  very 
plain  terms,  that  Mr.  Solomons,  having  taken  Paul's  life 
into  his  own  hands  while  Paul  was  yet  too  young  to  know 
good  from  evil,  and  having  brought  Paul  up  like  a  gentle- 
man at  Oxford,  was  clearly  bound  to  see  the  thing  through 
to  the  bitter  end — at  least  till  Paul  had  taken  his  degree, 
and  was,  therefore,  in  a  position  to  earn  his  own  liveli- 
hood. 

"If  I  were  you,  Gascoyne,"  the  blond  young  man 
asserted  vigorously  (with  an  unnecessary  expletive,  here 
suppressed),  "  I  wouldn't  hav$  the  very  slightest  compunq- 


1  ■ 


i 


;  :;..•<■ 


133 


THE   !iCALLYWAG. 


I 

I 


Ji 


tion  in  the  world  in  taking  his  money  for  the  next  two  terms, 
and  then  telling  him  right  out  he  might  whistle  for  his  cash 
till  you  were  able  and  ready  to  pay  him  back  again.  It's 
his  own  fault  entirely  if  he's  made  a  bad  investment  on  a 
grotesque  security.  At  least  that's  how  we'd  look  at  the 
matter  in  Yorkshire." 

"  I  think,"  Paul  answered,  with  that  gravity  beyond  his 
years  that  fate  had  forced  upon  him,  "  if  it  were  somebody 
else's  case  I  was  judging,  instead  of  my  own,  I  should  judge 
as  you  do,  either  in  Yorkshire  or  elsewhere.  I  should  say 
a  fellow  wasn't  bound  by  acts  imposed  upon  him,  as  it  were, 
by  his  father  or  others,  before  he  arrived  at  years  of  discre- 
tion. But  then,  when  I  was  asked  to  sign  those  papers 
yesterday,  if  I  was  going  to  protest  at  all,  that  was  the 
moment  when  I  ought  to  have  protested.  I  ought  to  have 
plainly  said,  *  I'll  sign  for  the  money,  if  you'll  go  on  finding 
me  in  ready  cash  till  I  take  my  degree  ;  but,  mind,  I  don't 
engage  to  do  anything  in  the  world  to  catch  an  heiress.' 
Only,  I  hadn't  the  courage  to  say  so  then  and  there.  You 
see,  it'*;  been  made  a  sort  of  religious  duty  ior  me,  through 
all  my  life,  to  marry  for  money  ;  and  if  I'd  blurted  out  my 
refusal  point  blank  like  that,  I'm  afraid  my  father  would 
have  been  grieved  and  annoyed  at  it." 

"I  expect  my  governor's  grieved  and  annoyed  at  a  great 
many  things  I  do,"  Thistleton  retorted  with  the  unruffled 
philosophical  calm  of  one-and-twenty,  where  others  are 
concerned.  *'  It  don't  pay  to  be  too  tender  to  the  feelings 
of  fathers,  you  see  ;  it  gives  them  too  high  and  mighty  an 
idea  of  their  own  importance.  Fathers  in  any  case  are  apt 
to  magnify  their  office  overmuch,  and  it  would  never  do  for 
sons  as  well  to  pamper  them.  But,  after  all,  I  don't  know 
why  you  need  have  spoken  at  all,  nor  why  you  shouldn't 
go  on  accepting  this  old  buffer's  assistance  and  support, 
with  a  quiet  conscience,  till  you  take  your  degree.    When 


'%^ 


COMMIT! hi:    Ol     ^(  rPLY 


t33 


one  looks  it  in  the  face,  you  don't  know  that  you  won't 
marry  an  heiress.  Accidents  wi/l  happen,  you  see,  even  in 
liic  best  regulated  famili'js.  It's  just  as  easy,  if  it  comes 
to  that,  to  fall  in  love  with  a  girl  with  five  thousand  a  year 
as  with  a  girl  who  hasn't  a  penny  to  bless  herself  with.  If 
the  five  thousand  pounder's  pretty  and  nice,  like  that 
Yankee  at  Mentone  with  the  nianima  in  tow,  I  should  say 
on  the  whole  it's  a  great  deal  easier." 

"  Not  for  me,"  Paul  answered,  with  the  prompt  fervor 
l)nrn  of  recent  internal  debate  on  this  very  question.  "  I 
(an  understand  that  another  fellow,  who  hadn't  been 
brought  up  to  look  out  for  money,  might  fall  in  love  with  a 
girl  with  money  quite  as  easily  as  with  a  girl  without  any. 
He  has  no  prejudice  one  way  or  the  other.  But  in  my  case 
it's  different.  '1  he  very  fact  that  the  money's  been  so  much 
insisted  upon  for  me,  and  that  part  of  it  would  go  to  pay 
Mr.  Solomons  " — Paul  never  even  thought  of  calling  his 
creditor  anything  less  respectful  than  **  Mr.  Solomons,"  even 
to  his  nearest  acquaintance — "  would  suffice  to  prevent  me 
from  falling  in  love  with  money.  You  see,  falling  in  love's 
such  a  delicately  balanced  operation  !  If  I  married  money 
at  all,  it'd  be  simply  and  solely  because  I  married  for 
money,  not  because  I  fell  in  love  with  it ;  and  I  could  never 
take  any  woman's  money  to  pay  the  debt  incurred  before- 
hand for  my  own  education.  I  should  feel  as  if  I'd  sold 
myself  to  her,  and  was  her  absolute  property." 

Thistleton  stirred  the  fire  meditatively  with  his  friend's 
poker.  "  It  is  awkward,"  he  admitted  unwillingly,  "  devil- 
ishly awkward,  I  allow.  I  say,  Gascoyne,  how  much  about 
does  it  cost  you  to  live  for  a  term  her^  ? " 

•'  Oh,  an  awful  lot  of  money,"  Paul  answered,  much  down- 
cast, staring  hard  at  the  embers.  "  Not  much  short  of  fifty 
pounds  on  an  average." 

Thistleton  looked  across  at  him  with  a  broad  smile  of 


(        « 


r 


,  >] 


I 


»34 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


I  I"; 


i|| 


Hi'. 


I     \ 


k 


% 


surprise.  "  Fifty  pounds  !  "  he  echoed.  "  You  don't  mean 
to  say,  my  dear  fellow,  you  uuiiiage  to  bring  it  down  to 
fifty  pounds,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Well,  for  summer  term  especially  I  do,  when  there  are 
no  fires  to  keep  up,"  Paui  answered  soberly.  '*  But  spring 
term  comes  rather  heavy  sometimes,  I  must  say,  because  of 
the  cold  and  extra  clothing." 

Thistleton  looked  long  at  the  fire,  staring  harder  than 
ever  with  blank  astonishment.  '*  Gascoyne,"  he  said  at  last 
in  a  very  low  tone,  "  I'm  clean  ashamed  of  myself." 

"  Why,  my  dear  boy  ? " 

"  Because  I  spend  at  least  five  times  as  much  as  that  on 
an  average." 

"  Ah,  but  then  you've  got  five  times  as  much  to  spend, 
you  know.     That  makes  all  the  difference." 

Thistleton  paused  and  ruminated  once  more.  How  very 
unevenly  things  are  arranged  in  this  world  !  He  was  evi- 
dently thinking  how  he  could  word  a  difificult  proposition 
for  their  partial  readjustment.  Then  he  spoke  again.  "  I 
could  easily  cut  my  own  expenses  down  fifty  quid  this 
term,"  he  said,  "if  you'd  only  let  me  lend  it  to  you.  I'm 
sure  I  wouldn't  feel  the  loss  in  any  way.  The  governor's 
behaved  like  a  brick  this  winter." 

Paul  shook  his  head.  "  Impossible,"  he  answered  with 
a  despondent  air.  **  It's  awfully  good  of  you,  Thistleton — 
awfully  kind  of  you  to  think  of  it  ;  but  as  things  stand,  of 
course  I  couldn't  dream  of  accepting  it." 

"  It  wouldn't  make  the  slightest  difference  in  the  world 
to  me,"  Thistleton  went  on  persuasively.  "  I  assure  you, 
Gascoyne,  my  goverpor  'd  never  feel  or  miss  fifty  pounds 
one  way  or  the  other." 

"  Thank  you,  ever  so  much,"  Paul  answered  with  genuine 
gratitude.  •'  I  know  you  mean  every  word  you  say,  but  I 
could  never  by  any  possibility  take  it,  Thistleton." 


COMMITTEE  OF  SL'PPl.V. 


135 


'•Why  not,  my  dear  boy  ?"  the  blond  young  man  said, 
laying  liis  hand  on  his  friend's  shoulder. 

'*  Because,  in  tlie  first  place,  it's  your  father'^  money,  not 
yours,  you  propose  to  lend  ;  and  I  couldn't  accept  it  :  but 
also  in  the  second  place,  which  is  far  more  important,  I 
haven't  the  very  slightest  chance  of  ever  repaying  you." 

••  Repaying  me  ! "  'I'histleton  echoed  witii  a  crestfallen 
air.  "Oh,  dash  it  all,  (iascoyne,  I  never  thought  of  your 
really  repaying  me,  of  course,  you  know.  I  meant  it  as  an 
ofter  of  pure  accommodation." 

Paul  laughed  in  spite  of  himself.  ••  That  sort  of  a  loan," 
he  said,  taking  his  friend's  hand  in  his  and  wringing  it 
warmly,  "  is  usually  called  by  another  name.  Seriously, 
riiistleton,  I  couldn't  think  of  taking  it  from  you.  You 
sc,  I've  no  right  to  pay  anybody  else  till  I've  ,epaid  the 
last  farthing  I  owe  to  Mr.  Solomons  :  and  to  borro' •  money 
on  the  chance  of  repaying  it  at  such  a  remote  date — say 
somewhere  about  the  Greek  Kalends — would  be  down- 
right robbery." 

A  bright  idea  seized  suddenly  upon  Thistleton.  "  By 
Jove  !  "  he  cried,  "I'll  tell  you  how  we'll  manage  it.  It's 
as  easy  as  pap.  You  can't  lose  either  way.  You  know 
that  prize  essay  you  were  mugging  .iway  at  all  the  time  we 
were  at  Mentone — 'The  Influence  of  the  Renaissance  on 
Modern  Thought,'  wasn't  it  ? — ah,  yes,  I  thought  so.  Well, 
how  much  would  you  get,  now,  if  you  happened  to 
win  it?" 

"  Fifty  pounds,"  Paul  answered.  "  But  then,  that's  so 
very  improbable." 

"  Awfully  improbable,"  his  friend  echoed  warmly,  with 
profound  conviction.  "  That's  just  what  I  say.  You 
haven't  a  chance.  You  ought  to  back  yourself  to  lose, 
don't  you  see;  that's  the  way -to  work  it.  I'll  tell  you 
what  I'll  do.    I'll  bet  you  tcr  to  one  in  fivers  you  win. 


i  I 


'» 


I  ■  1 


ii 

■  ■ !  I 


1 


136 


77/A    SCALLYWAG. 


I 

I 


«  n 


I  '■  .111 


i 


And  you  put  a  fiver  on  the  chance  you  dot.'':.  Then — 
•don't  you  catch  on  ? ' — as  the  Yankee  girl  used  to  say; 
you  stand  to  come  out  pretty  even  either  way.  Suppose 
you  get  the  prize,  you  earn  fifty  pounds,  out  of  which  you 
owe  me  a  fiver — that  leaves  forty-five  to  the  good,  doesn't 
it?  Rut  suppose  you  lose,  I  owe  you  fifty.  So,  you  see, 
you  cljar  pretty  nearly  the  same  lot  whichever  turns  up. 
I  call  that  good  hedging."  And  the  blond  young  man 
leant  back  in  his  chair  with  a  chuckle  at  his  own  ingenuity. 

Paul  smiled  again.  The  blond  young  man  seemed  so 
hugely  delighted  at  the  cleverness  of  his  own  device  that 
he  was  really  loth  to  be  compelled  to  disillusion  him. 
•'  Vour  adroitness  in  trying  to  find  a  way  to  make  me  a 
present  of  fifty  pounds,  under  a  transparent  disguise,  really 
touches  me,"  he  said  with  a  faint  tremor  in  liis  voice  ; 
"but  don't  think  about  it  any  more,  you  dear,  good  fellow. 
It's  quite  impossible.  I  must  try  to  make  it  up  myself 
with  pupils  and  economy,  and  back  my  chances  for  the 
prize  essay.  If  at  the  end  of  the  term  I'm  still  to  the  bad, 
I'll  put  the  matter  fairly  before  Mr.  Solomons.  Whether  I 
stop  up  one  term  longer  and  take  my  degree  or  not  must 
then  depend  upon  what  he  thinks  best  for  his  own  interest. 
After  all,  my  whole  future's  mortgage ;!  to  him  already, 
and  it's  more  his  affair  than  mine  in  the  end  what  becomes 
of  me." 

"Why,  I  call  it  downright  slavery?"  Thistleton  ex- 
claimed warmly.  "I  think  it  ought  to  be  i:rohibited  by 
Act  of  Parliament.  It's  a  great  deal  worse  than  the  chim- 
ney boys  and  the  indentured  laborers.  I  only  wish  I'd  got 
that  beastly  old  Jew,  with  his  head  in  chancery  here  under 
my  arms,  this  very  minute.  By  George,  sir,  wouldn't  I  just 
punch  it  as  flat  as  a  pancake  in  rather  less  than  no  time  !  " 

"  I  think,"  Paul  answered  with  a  smile,  •'  punching  his 
head  fiat  would  do  me  very  little  permanent  good.    Indeed, 


■^rfeiwi 


I''OkTVS*E  I'Al'ORS    THE  MffAl'E. 


>J7 


in  his  own  wuy  he  really  means  me  well.  He's  bound  us 
down  by  all  the  terrors  of  the  law  to  his  percentages  and 
his  policies;  but  I  believe  he  considers  hnnself  my  bene- 
factor for  all  that." 

"  Mcnefactor  be  blowed  !  "  Thistleton  responded,  rising 
with  north  country  vehemence.  ••  If  only  I  could  see  the 
old  blackguard  in  college  to-night,  it'd  give  me  the  sin- 
lerest  pleasure  in  life  to  kick  him  a  dozen  times  round 
lorn  Quad  till  he  roared  for  mercy." 


I 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


FORTUNE  FAVORS  THE  URAVE. 


In  spite  of  Paul's  fears,  however,  that  dreaded  spring 
term  went  off  most  happily.  To  be  sure  he  had  to  work 
for  his  bread  like  a  London  cab-horse  (as  Sir  Emery  loved 
professionally  to  phrase  it),  but  Paul  had  never  been  afraid 
of  hard  work,  and  as  long  as  he  could  make  both  ends  meet 
somehow,  and  avoid  running  into  further  debt  with  Mr. 
Solomons,  he  was  amply  satisfied.  And  that  spring  term  he 
got  as  many  pupils  as  he  could  possibly  find  time  for.  The 
reason  for  this  sudden  run  upon  tutorial  powers  was,  of 
course,  the  usual  one  which  accounts  for  all  successes  and 
failures  in  life — a  woman's  wire-pulling.  It  is  a  mistake  to 
think  this  world  is  mainly  run  by  men.  Genius,  talent, 
industry,  capacity,  nay,  even  the  invaluable  quality  of 
unscrupulousness  itself,  are  as  dust  in  the  balance  as  a 
means  to  success  compared  with  the  silent,  unobtrusive, 
backstairs  influence  of  the  feminine  intelligence.  A  woman's 
wit  is  worth  the  whole  lot  of  them. 

And  this  valuable  ally  in  the  struggle  for  life  Paul  man- 
aged to  secure  almost  without  knowing  it. 


f    l\ 


•3» 


THE  SCAl.l.YWAG, 


%   \ 


For  two  days  after  l»is  return  to  The  House  (as  Christ 
Church  men  insist  upon  tallniy;  ihrir  coIk'ji»e)  I'aul  received 
a  little  note  from  Faith's  new  friend,  Mrs.  I)()uy;las,  inviting 
him  to  drink  altornoun  tea  at  her  Ikhisc  in  the  I'arks— the 
fashionable  tutorial  suburb  of  modern  married  Oxford. 

'I'he  I'arks,  in  fact,  which  are  the  natural  outcome  of  the 
married  fellow  sy.stcm,  have  completely  revolutionized  the 
Oxford  we  all  knew  and  loved  in  our  own  callow  under- 
graduate period.  In  those  monastic  a^es  the  fellow  who 
married  lost  his  fellowship  ;  the  presence  of  women  in  the 
University  was  unknown  ;  and  even  the  stray  intrusion  of  a 
sister  or  cousin  into  those  stern  gray  quads  was  severely 
frowned  upon  by  ascetic  authority.  lUit,  nowadays,  under 
the  new  petticoat  n'l^ime,  all  that  is  chanj^ed  :  the  Senior 
Tutor  lives  in  a  comfortable  creeper-clad  villa  "  >  the  Parks  ; 
his  wife  gives  lunches  and  afternoon  teas  ;  his  grown- 

up daughters  play  tennis  with  the  men,  and  oelong  to  the 
University  just  as  much  as  the  average  undergraduate — or 
even  in  virtue  of  their  fixity  of  tenure  a  little  more  so. 
Mrs,  Senior  Tutor  (with  marriageable  girls)  is  quite  as  anx- 
ious to  catch  the  eligible  undergraduate  for  her  own  dance 
in  Commemoration  week  as  any  Belgravian  mamma  in  all 
London  ;  and  the  Reverend  the  Bursar  himself  smiles 
benignly  while  scholars  and  exhibitioners  waste  the  shining 
hours  in  flirtation  and  punts  on  the  banks  of  the  Cherwell. 
Things  were  not  so  ordered  Consule  Planco^  when  Leighton 
was  vice-chancellor.  But  as  everybody  seems  satisfied 
with  the  existing  system — especially  the  Senior  Tutor's 
daughters — there  can  be  little  doubt  that  all  is  for  the  best 
in  the  best  of  all  possible  Universities,  and  that  flirting,  so 
far  from  distracting  the  heads  of  students,  as  the  older 
school  devoutly  believed,  is  in  reality  a  powerful  spur  on 
the  mind  of  the  youth  to  the  acquisition  of  classical  and 
mathematical  knowledge. 


/-ORICXE   FAl'OffS    rHE   HKAVI 


«J9 


ing,  so 
older 


To  this  new  microcosm  of  llic  Parks  aiul  ilicir  inhabi- 
lants,  Mrs.  Douglas  played  the  part  of  center  of  gravity. 
Round  her  as  primary  the  lesser  orbs  of  that  little  system 
revolved  iu  their  various  suhorilinale  places.  Not  that 
Mrs.  Douglas  herself  was  cither  rich  or  pretentious,  'i'he 
.\(  cadian  professor's  stipend  consisted  of  the  modest 
interest  on  a  sum  in  Reduced  'rwo-and-threcquarters  per 
cent.  Consols,  which  he  supplemented  only  by  private 
means  of  the  smallest,  and  by  a  very  Jiiodcratc  income 
iiom  his  wife's  family.  Hut  Mrs.  Douglas  had  the  invalu- 
.ible  quality  of  being  able  to  '•  hold  her  salon  ";  and  being 
besides  an  earl's  niece,  she  had  rapidly  grown  into  the 
principal  wire-puller  and  recognized  leader  of  Oxford 
tutorial  society.  With  th  l  greater  world  where  the  heads 
nf  houses  move  serene  in  placid  orbits,  indeed,  she  inter- 
fered but  little  ;  but  the  Parks  acknowledged  her  sway 
without  a  murmur,  as  the  representative  of  authority  in  its 
must  benign  avatar.  For  Mrs.  Douglas  had  tact,  sense, 
and  kindliness;  she  was  truly  sympathetic  to  a  very  high 
degree,  and  she  would  put  herself  out  to  ser\^  i  friend  in 
a  way  that  was  sure  to  attract  the  friend's  warmest  grati- 
tude. Moreover,  she  was  a  woman,  and,  therefore,  skilled 
in  the  femine  art  of  mounting  the  back  stairs  with  address 
and  good  humor.  This  combination  of  qualities  made  her 
justly  loved  and  admired  in  Oxford  by  all  save  those 
unfortunate  people  whom  her  kindly  machinations  often  suc- 
ceeded in  keeping  out  of  posts  for  which  they  possessed 
every  qualification  on  earth  except  the  one  needful  one  of 
Mrs.  Douglas'  friendship.  But  drawbacks  like  this  are,  of 
course,  incidental  to  every  possible  system  of  *'  influence  " 
in  government. 

Now  things  had  made  this  powerful  and  good-natured 
lady  particularly  anxious  to  know  and  serve  Paul  Gascoyne. 
In  the  first  place,  she  had  been  deeply  interested  in  his 


'^i 


140 


THE   SCAIJ.YWAC. 


% 


I 


IT' 


'i 


I 


I  I 


sister  Faith,  whose  curious  character  had  engaged  her 
sympathy  at  once,  and  with  whom  their  one  night  at  the 
country  hotel  together  had  made  her  suddenly  quite  inti- 
mate.  In  the  second  place,  on  her  return  to  Oxford,  she 
had  found  a  letter  awaiting  her  from  Nea  Blair,  her  little 
Cornish  friend,  which  contained  some  casual  mention  of  a 
certain  charming  Cnrist  Church  man,  a  Mr.  Gascoyne,  who 
had  created  quite  a  puzzle  for  Mentone  society  by  his 
singular  mixture  of  pride  and  humility.  Well,  if  Mrs. 
Dou'^las  had  2i  fault,  it  was  that  of  taking  too  profound  an 
interest  in  the  fancies  and  fortunes  of  young  people  gener- 
ally. Her  husband,  indeed,  was  wont  to  aver  that,  after 
Bryant  &  May,  she  was  the  greatest  matchmaker  in  all 
England.  Something  in  Nea  Blair's  letter — some  mere 
undertone  of  feeling,  that  only  a  clever  woman  would  ever 
have  guepsed  at — suggested  to  Mrs.  Douglas's  quick 
instincts  the  idea  that  Nea  Blair  was  more  than  commonly 
interested  in  Paul  Gascoyne's  personality  and  prospects. 
That  alone  would  have  been  enough  to  make  Mrs.  Douglas 
anxious  to  meet  and  know  Paul  :  the  accident  of  her  chance 
acquaintance  with  Faith  in  the  commodious  horsebox 
made  her  doubly  anxious  to  be  of  use  and  service  to  him. 

So  when  Paul  duly  presented  himself  at  the  eligible 
creeper-clad  villa  in  the  Parks,  to  drink  tea  with  the  wife  of 
the  Accadian  professor,  Mrs.  Douglas  drew  out  of  him  by 
dexterous  side-pressure  the  salient  fact  that  he  was  anxious 
to  find  private  p''pils,  or  otherwise  to  increase  his  scanty 
income.  And  having  once  arrived  at  a  knowledge  of  that 
fact,  Mrs.  Douglas  made  it  her  business  in  life  for  the  next 
ten  days  to  scour  all  Oxford  in  search  of  men  who  wanted 
to  read  for  Mods  with  a  private  tutor,  going  out  into  the 
very  highways  and  by-ways  of  the  University,  so  to  speak, 
and  compelling  them  to  come  in  w.th  ruly  Biblical  fortitude. 
But  when  once  Mrs.  Douglas  took  a  thing  in  hand,  it  was 


:l.    !■ 


!  I- 


FOR/CXF.    /AVOIDS    THE   BRAVE. 


MI 


wtll  beknown  to  the  chancellor,  masters,  and  scholars  of 
the  University  of  Oxford  that,  sooner  or  later,  she  meant 
to  get  it  done,  and  that  the  chancellor,  masters,  and 
scholars  aforesaid  might,  therefore,  just  as  well  give  in  at 
once,  without  unnecessary  trouble,  bother,  or  expense,  and 
let  her  have  her  way  as  soon  as  she  asked  for  it.  "  Going 
ill  for  Mods  in  June?"  Mrs.  Douglas  would  remark,  with 
a  sigli  of  pity,  to  the  unhappy  undergraduate  of  limited 
brains,  fixing  her  mild  brown  eyes  upon  him  with  an  air  of 
the  profoundest  sympathy  and  friendly  assistance.  "  Then 
you'll  want  to  read  up  your  books  this  term  with  a  private 
coach  or  somebody,  <?/  course;''  and  when  the  unhappy 
undvTgraduate  of  limited  brains,  falling  readily  into  the 
trap  thus  baited  for  his  destruction,  admitted  abstractly,  in 
a  general  way,  that  a  little  tutorial  assistance  of  a  friendly 
sort  would,  perhaps,  be  not  wholly  unsuited  to  his  intellect- 
ual needs,  Mrs.  Douglas,  fixing  her  mild  brown  eye  still 
more  firmly  than  ever  upon  his  trembling  face,  would  nail 
him  to  his  admission  at  once  by  responding  cheerfully, 
"Then  I  know  the  very  man  that'll  suit  your  book  just 
down  to  the  ground.  Mr.  Gascoyne  of  Christ  Church  has 
a  great  many  pupils  reading  with  him  this  term,  but  I  dare- 
say I  could  induce  him  to  make  room  for  you  somehow. 
My  husband  thinks  very  highly  of  Mr.  Gascoyne.  He's  a 
capital  coach.  If  you  want  to  get  through  with  flying 
colors,  he's  just  the  right  man  to  pull  you  out  of  the  moder- 
ator's clutches.  That's  his  card  in  my  basket  there  ;  don't 
forget  the  name ;  *  Gascoyne  of  Christ  Church,  first  pair 
right,  number  six,  Peckwater.'  Yes,  one  of  the  great  Gas- 
coyne people  down  at  Pembrokeshire — that's  the  very 
family.  I'm  glad  you  know  them.  His  father's  the  present 
Baronet,  I  believe,  and  his  sister's  coming  up  to  see  me  next 
Commemoration.  If  you  like,  you  can  take  his  card  to 
remember  the  name  by — and  when  Mr.  Gascoyne  comes 


\  ■' 


>'. 


,!) 


!•' 


I 


fl' 

U  i    1 

V 

.'H, 

i' 

■I  'i 


if 


I 


0' 


1 


142 


7-///^   SCAIJ.YH'AG. 


again  on  Sunday,  I'll  make  a  point  of  asking  him  whether 
you've  been  to  call  upon  him  about  reading  for  Mods,  or 
not,  and  I'll  tell  him  (as  you're  a  most  particular  friend  of 
mine)  to  be  sure  to  pay  you  every  possible  attention." 

When  a  clever  and  good-looking  woman  of  thirty-five, 
who  happens  to  be  also  a  professor's  wife,  flings  herself 
upon  an  unhappy  undergraduate  of  limited  brains  in  that 
dashing  fashion,  with  a  smile  that  might  ^oiLcn  the  heart  of 
a  stone,  what  on  earth  can  the  unhappy  undergraduate  do 
in  self-defense  but  call  at  once  upon  Gascoyne  of  Christ 
Church,  and  gratefully  receive  his  valuable  instructions? 
Whence  it  resulted  that,  at  the  end  of  a  fortnight,  Gascoyne 
of  Christ  Church  had  as  many  pupils  as  he  could  easily 
manage  (at  ten  pounds  a  head)  and  saw  his  way  clearly  to 
that  term's  expenses,  about  which  he  had  so  despaired  a  few 
days  before  with  Faith  at  Hillborough.  A  woman  of  Mrs. 
Douglas'  type  is  the  most  useful  ally  a  man  can  find  in 
life.  Make  friends  with  her,  young  man,  wherever  met ; 
and  be  sure  she  will  be  worth  to  you  a  great  deal  more  than 
many  hundred  men  at  the  head  of  your  profession. 

One  further  feat  of  Mrs.  Douglas'  the  candid  historian 
blushes  to  repeat,  yet,  in  the  interest  of  truth,  it  must 
needs  be  recorded. 

For  when,  a  fortnight  later,  Mrs.  Douglas  gave  hei  first 
dinner-party  of  the  term,  she  took  occasion,  in  the  drawing 
room,  about  ten  of  the  clock,  to  draw  aside  th(;  Senior 
Proctor,  confidentially,  for  a  moment,  and  murmur  in  his 
ear  ;  "  I  think,  Mr.  Wayles,  you're  one  of  the  exaniners 
for  the  Marlborough  Historical  Essay,  aren't  you?  " 

The  Senior  Proctor,  a  grim,  close-shaven  man,  with  firm- 
set  lips  and  a  very  clerical  mouth  and  collar,  signified  his 
assent  by  a  slight  bow  of  acquiescence,  and  a  murmured 
reply  of,  *•  I  believe  my  office  entails  upon  me  that  among 
other  honors." 


v  '  ll.' 


FORTUNE   FAVORS    THE   BRAVE. 


M3 


Mrs,  Douglas  assumed  her  most  bewitching  smile. 
"  Now,  dear  Mr,  Wayles,"  she  said,  bending  over  toward 
him  coquettishly, '*  you  mustn't  really  be  angry  with  me, 
I'm  only  a  woman,  you  know,  and  we  women  have  always 
our  little  plots  and  conspiracies  on  hand,  haven't  we  ?  I'm 
very  much  interested  in  a  particular  essay  which  bears  for 
motto  the  words,  *  Non  jam  prima  peto  Mnestheus  neque 
vincere  certo,  Quanquam  O  ' !  There,  you  see,  though  I 
was  dragged  up  before  Girton  and  Newnham  were  invented, 
you  didn't  know  before  I  could  spout  out  a  Latin  hexameter 
as  pat  as  that,  did  you  ?  Well,  I  want  you  most  particularly 
to  read  over  that  identical  essay  with  special  attention,  very 
special  attention,  and  if  you  find  it  in  evety  respect  im- 
mensely better  than  all  the  rest  put  together,  to  recom- 
mend it  to  the  kind  attention  of  your  colleagues." 

The  Senior  Proctor — that  grim,  close-shaven  man — 
allowed  just  the  faintest  ghost  of  a  smile  of  amused  pity  to 
pucker  the  corners  of  his  very  clerical  mouth  as  he 
answered  with  official  succinctness,  '•'■  Every  essay  alike,  my 
dear  Mrs.  Douglas,  will  >  ''ive  at  my  hands,  and  I  believe 
I  may  venture  to  say  at  those  of  my  brother-c.x  innners 
also,  the  most  impartial  consideivilion  ;  and  nothuig  that 
can  be  said  to  us  by  any  outside  peison — evtM  yourself — 
can  have  t«he  very  slightest  influence  upon  us  in  ma  mg  our 
award  to  the  most  deserving  competitor." 

"Oh,  of  course,"  Mrs,  Douglas  answered,  with  that  most 
bewitching  smile  once  more  well  to  the  fron'..  "  I  know 
and  understand  all  that  perfectly.  I  haven't  \\\  ^A  so  long 
in  the  University  as  dear  Archie's  wife  w.Liiout  having 
learnt  how  absolutely  useless  it  is  to  try  to  pull  any  wires  or 
go  up  any  backstairs  in  University  business,  I  only  meant 
to  say  //  you  find  that  essay  quite  undeniably  the  very  best, 
T  hope  you  won't  let  the  fact  of  my  recommendation  tell 
strongly  against  it." 


^ 


II 


't^*^    <  .  i; 


•44 


THE    SCALLYWAG. 


\h^ 


If 


The  Senior  Proctor  had  an  uncomfortable  sense  that 
when  Mrs.  Douglas  laid  so  profound  a  stress  upon  the 
worc's  "absolutely  useless"  that  irrcveunt  little  woman 
was  actually  tryiny^  to  chaff  him  or  to  laugh  in  her  sleeve  ; 
and  as  the  Senior  Proctor  represents  before  the  world  the 
dignity  and  majesty  of  the  University  in  its  corporate 
capacity,  so  wicked  an  attempt  on  her  part  to  poke  fun  at 
his  office  would,  no  doubt,  have  merited  coiidiun  punish- 
ment. But  he  only  bowf.d  once  more  a  sphinxlike  bow, 
and  answered  severely  "  All  the  essays  alike  shall  have  my 
best  attention." 

Now,  we  all  of  us  know,  of  course — we  who  are  men  and 
women  of  the  world — that  the  Senior  Proctor  spoke  the 
exact  truth,  and  that  in  matters  so  important  as  University 
prizes  no  shadow  of  partiality  can  ever  be  suspected  among 
English  gentlemen.  (If  it  were,  we  might  all  be  tempted 
to  think  that  English  gentlemen  were  not,  after  all,  so  very 
superior  in  kind  as  we  know  them  to  be  to  the  members  of 
every  other  European  nationality.)  Nevertheless,  it  must 
be  noted  as  a  singular  and  unaccountable  historical  fact 
that  when  the  Senior  Proctor — that  lone,  b^ichelor  man — 
went  home  that  nigl-  along  the  cold,  gray  streets  to  his 
solitary  rooms  in  x  ellows  Quad,  Merton,  anO  saw  a  big 
bundle  of  Marlborough  prize  essays  lying  on  his  table 
unopened  for  his  deep  consideration,  his  moiUh  relaxed  for 
a  moment  into  a  distinctly  humai.  sinile  as  he  thought  of 
the  delicate  pressure  of  her  hand  with  which  Mrs.  Douglas 
— charming  woman,  to  be  sure,  Mrs.  Douglas  ! — had  bid 
him  good-night,  with  a  last  whispered  adieu  of  "  Now, 
don'f  forget,  Mr,  Wayles  :  '  Non  jam  prima  peto  Mnes- 
theus  neque  vincere  certo !  * "  How  delicious  Vergil 
sounded,  to  be  sure,  on  those  rine,  red  lips  !  Had  she 
learnt  that  verse  by  heart,  he  wondered,  on  purpose  to 
bamboozle   him  ?     So   thinking,  and   gloating   over   that 


FORTUNE   FAVORS    THE    BRAVE 


»4S 


dainty  pressure,  the  Senior  Proctor  flung  himself  into  his 
ea^>-chair  before  his  goodly  fire,  kicked  off  his  boots  and 
endued  himself  in  his  warm,  woolen-lined  slipper^,  fortified 
his  intellect  with  a  brandy-and  soda  Ironi  the  syphon  at  his 
side,  lighted  one  ot  Bacon's  best  cigars,  and  proceeded, 
with  his  feet  on  the  fender  comfortably,  to  adilress  his 
soul  in  indulgent  mood  to  the  task  of  literary  and  historical 
criticism. 

But  strange  to  say,  he  did  not  take  up  the  very  first  essay 
that  came  to  hand,  as  a  conscientious  Senior  Proctor  might 
fairly  be  expected  to  do,  On  the  contrary,  he  turned  them 
all  over  one  by  one,  with  deliberative  Hnger,  till  he  came 
to  a  roll  of  neat  white  foolscap,  legiLly  inscribed  in  a  bold 
black  hand — I  blush  to  narrate  it — with  that  very  Vergilian 
motto  which  treacherous  Mrs.  Douglas  had  been  at  such 
pains  to  get  by  rote,  without  one  false  quantity,  and  to  fire 
off,  unappalled,  against  his  grim  clerical  mouth  and  collar. 
He  read  the  essay  through  first  with  close  attention  ;  then 
he  wrote  down  on  a  small  sheet  of  pai)er  at  his  side  the 
mystic  letters,  "v.  g,,"  supposed  to  stand  for  "very  good  "  in 
our  own  vernacular.  By  the  time  he  had  read  it  through, 
the  hour  was  advanced,  and  a  second  brandy-and- 
soda  and  a  second  cigar  were  needed  to  stimulate 
the  critical  faculty.  As  time  went  on,  it  must  be 
frankly  admitted,  those  essays  got  shorter  and  shorter 
shrift,  while  the  soda  got  deeper  and  deeper  doses  of 
brandy,  until  by  the  time  the  clock  marked  three,  the 
Senior  Proctor  rose  up  with  dignity,  drained  the  remainder 
of  his  last  tall  tumbler,  and  sticking  all  the  papers  in  his 
desk  for  read,  strolled  off  to  his  bedroom,  unmistakably 
sleepy. 

Now,  it  must  not  be  concluded  from  this  veracious  ac- 
count that  Paul  Gascoyne's  essay  was  not  in  all  probability, 
on  its  own  merits,  the  very  best  of  the  entire  lot  submitted 


t  I:- 


:   it     t 


ii 


I 


I 


146 


THE   SCAI.IYWAG. 


for  judgment  ;  nor  that  Mrs.  Douglas  had  exerted  on  its 
behalf  anything  which  could  be  described  by  the  most 
severe  moralist  as  undue  influence.  In  fact,  liave  we  not 
already  recorded  the  Senior  I'roctor's  einphalic  and  delib- 
erate assertion  to  the  contrary  ?  And  was  not  that  asser- 
tion again  renewed  ?  For  when,  a  fortnight  later,  Mrs. 
Douglas  ventured  to  thank  the  dignitary  in  question  (as  she 
irreverently  phrased  it)  "  for  backing  her  man  for  the  Marl- 
borough Prize,"  the  Senior  Proctor,  opening  his  eyes  wide 
in  his  very  grimmest  fashion,  replied  with  an  innocent  air 
of  surprise  : 

'*  Oh,  so  the  successful  candidate  was  the  person  you 
spoke  about,  Mrs,  Douglas,  was  he  ?  Well,  I'm  sure  we 
had  none  of  us  the  very  faintest  idea  of  it." 

But,  nevertheless,  it  is  a  historical  fact  not  to  be  blinked 
that,  when  the  Senior  Proctor  [)assed  on  the  papers  to  his 
brother  examiners  for  consideration,  Paul  Gascoyne's  essay 
went  on  top,  marked  in  plain  words  "  Optitne  meritus  est. — P. 
H.  VV.,"  and  it  is  equally  certain  that  the  other  examiners, 
glancing  hastily  over  them  with  an  uncritical  eye,  one  and 
all  indorsed  Mr.  Wayles'  opinion.  From  which  facts  it 
may  be  gathered  that,  though  Paul  Gascoyne's  Marlborough 
Essay  was  really  and  truly  one  of  the  most  brilliant  ever 
submitted  to  the  Board  of  F^xaminers.  and  though  favorit- 
ism of  any  kind  is  unknown  in  Oxford,  it  is  none  the  less 
a  very  useful  thing  to  have  a  Mrs.  Douglas  of  your  own  on 
hand  to  say  a  good  word  for  you  whenever  convenient. 

But  Paul  had  no  idea  of  all  these  hidden  springs  of  ac- 
tion in  the  Senior  Proctor  and  his  esteemed  colleagues 
when,  a  week  or  so  before  the  end  of  the  term,  he 
read,  all  trembling,  a  notice  posted  on  the  door  of  the 
schools: 

"  The  Board  of  Examiners  for  the  Marlborough  His- 
torical  Essay,   Chichele   Foundation,   have    awarded   the 


RE  vol.  U  TIOXA  R  Y  SC/fEA/ES. 


M7 


Prize  of  Fifty  Guineas  to  Paul  Gascoyne,  Commoner  of 
Christ  Church." 

His  heart  beat  high  as  he  read  those  words,  and  his 
knees  reeled  under  him.  So  next  term,  at  least,  was  safe 
from  Mr.  Solomons ! 


f 


! 


CHAPTER   XVII. 


REVOLUTIONARY    SCHEMES. 


Nevertheless,  it  was  not  without  great  damage  to  his 
own  ultimate  chances  of  future  success  that  Paul  had 
secured  this  momentary  triumpli.  He  was  able  to  write 
back  to  Hillborough,  it  is  tri'e,  and  assure  Mr.  Solomons 
he  \\?A  no  further  need  of  assistance  for  the  present  ;  but 
he  had  lost  almost  a  whole  term,  so  far  as  his  own  reading 
for  the  Great  Schools  was  concerned,  in  that  valiant  spurt 
at  private  pupils.  His  prospects  of  a  First  were  far  more 
remote  now  than  ever  before,  for  a  man  can't  support  him- 
self by  teaching  others,  and  at  the  same  time  read  hard 
enough  in  his  spare  hours  to  enter  into  fair  competition 
with  his  compeers  who  have  been  able  to  devote  their 
undivided  energies  to  their  own  educatioji.  He  hatl  handi- 
capped  himself  heavily  in  the  race  for  honors.  Paul  rue- 
fully realized  this  profound  truth  when  he  began  to  work 
on  his  own  account  in  the  Easter  vacation  and  summer 
term.  He  had  a  great  deal  of  leeway  still  to  make  up  if 
he  was  to  present  himself  in  a  well-prepared  condition 
before  the  searching  scrutiny  of  those  dreaded  examiners. 
And  on  the  issue  of  the  examination  depended  in  large 
measure  his  chance  of  obtaining  a  fellowship,  with  the 
consequent  possibility  of  earning  a  livelihood,  and  sooner 
or  later  repaying  Mr.  Solomons. 


.....l 


T 

n 


I  i 


!! 


«!•,!: 


,f:< 


I4A 


/"//A    SCALLYiyAG. 


Spring  and  the  Easter  vacation  wore  away,  and  summer 
term  came  back  to  Oxford.  The  new  green  foli::ge  dawned 
once  more  on  the  chestnuts  by  the  Cherwell.  'i'he  Univer- 
sity blossomed  out  into  punts  and  flannels;  laburnums 
and  pink  may  glorified  the  parks  ;  ices  were  in  brisk  demand 
at  Cooper's  in  the  High  ;  and  tiie  voice  of  the  sister  was 
heard  in  the  tennis  courts,  eagerly  criticising  the  fraternal 
service.  It  was  all  as  delightful  and  as  redolent  of  youth, 
fizz,  and  syllabub,  as  Oxford  knt)ws  how  to  be  in  full  leaf 
and  in  warm  June  weather.  And  Paul  Gascoyne,  working 
hard  for  Greats  in  his  rooms  in  Peckwater,  was  neverthe- 
less able  to  snatch  many  an  afternoon  for  a  pull  in  a  four 
down  the  river  to  Newiiham,  or  for  a  long  stroll  round 
Cumnor  and  Shotover  with  his  friend  Thistlelon.  Even 
the  shadow  of  an  approaching  examination,  and  the  remote 
prospect  of  being  Mr.  Solomons'  bond  slave  for  half  a  life- 
time,  cannot  quite  kill  out  in  the  full  heart  of  youth  the 
glory  of  the  green  leaf  and  the  fresh  vigor  of  an  English 
spring-tide. 

About  these  days,  one  mo..iing  down  at  Hillborough, 
Faith  Gascoyne,  sitting  in  the  window  where  the  clematis 
looked  into  her  small,  bare  bedroom,  heard  a  postman's 
double  knock  at  the  door  below,  and  rushed  down  in  haste 
to  take  the  letters.  There  was  only  one,  but  that  was 
enclosed  in  a  neat,  square  envelope,  of  better  quality  than 
often  came  to  Plowden's  Court,  and  bearing  on  the  flap  a 
crest  and  monogram  in  delicate  neutral  color.  It  was 
addressed  to  herself,  and  bore  the  Oxford  postmark.  Faith 
guessed  at  once  from  whom  it  must  come  ;  but  none  the 
less  she  tore  it  open  with  quivering  fingers  and  read  it 
eagerly. 

"  My  dear  Faith,"  it  began,  for  that  night  at  the  country 
fnn  had  made  Mrs.  Douglas  feel  quite  at  home  with  the 
national  schoolmistress,  "  I  hope    you  haven't   altogether 


fCF.  I  'OL  UTIONAK  Y   SCHEMES. 


140 


forgotten  your  implied   promise  to  come  and  see   me  at 
Oxford  this  term." 

•'  How  can  slie  say  so,"  thoujjht  Faith,  •'  tlie  wicked  thing, 
when  I  told  her  a^ain  and  again,  a  dozcK  times  over,  it  was 
absohitely  impossible? "  But  that  was  part  of  Mrs.  Doug- 
his'  insinuating  cleverness. 

"  Well,  my  dear  little  Cornish  friend,  Nea  Blair,  who  met 
your  brother  Paul  at  Mentone  last  winter,  and  was  so 
charmed  with  him,  is  coming  up  to  stay  with  us  week  after 
next  ;  and,  as  I  think  it  would  be  nicer  for  both  you  girls 
to  have  a  little  society  of  your  own  age,  so  as  not  to  be 
entirely  dependent  on  an  old  married  woman  like  me  for 
entertainment,  I  want  you  to  manage  so  that  your  visit  may 
coincide  with  hers,  and  then,  yon  know,  the  same  set  of 
festivities  will  do  for  both  of  you.  Now,  isn't  thateconom- 
ical  ?  So  mind  you  don't  disappoint  us,  as  dozens  of  under- 
graduates, who  have  seen  the  photo  you  gave  me,  are  dying 
to  make  your  personal  acquaintance,  and  some  of  them  are 
rich,  and  as  beautiful  as  Adonis.  Please  recollect  I'll  stand 
no  excuses,  and  least  of  all  any  that  have  any  nonsense  in 
them.  Write  by  return  and  t.ell  me,  not  whether  you  can 
come  or  not — that's  settled  ,al read)' — but  by  what  train  on 
Wednesday  week  '.ve  may  expect  to  see  you.  Mr.  Douglas 
will  go  down  to  the  station  to  bring  you  up.     No  refusal 

allowed. 

**  Ever  yours  affectionately, 

*'  Eleanor  Mary  Douglas." 


''i 


Then  came  a  peculiarly  fetching  P.  S.  : 

"As  I  have  some  reason  to  believe  that  your  brother  Paul 
has  a  sneaking  regard  for  my  little  friend  Nea,  I  think  it 
may  be  just  as  well  you  should  come  at  once  and  form  an 


!'    '' 


m 

4 
.i. 

»5o 


77/A'   SCALLYIVAG, 


opinion  about  her  desirability  as  a  possible  sister-in-law, 
before  Mr.  (lascoyne  has  irrevocably  committed  hiniseif 
to  her  without  obtaining  your  previous  approbation  and 
consent." 


Kaith  laid  down  the  letter  on  the  bed  before  her,  and 
burst  at  once  into  a  fierce  flood  of  tears. 

It  was  so  terrible  to  stand  so  near  the  accomplishment  of 
a  dream  of  years,  and  yet  to  feel  its  realization  utterly  un- 
attainable ! 

Ever  since  Paul  first  went  to  Oxford  it  had  been  the 
dearest  wish  of  Faith's  heart  to  pay  him  a  visit  there. 
Every  time  he  came  back  to  that  narrow  world  of  Hill-  . 
borough  with  tidings  of  all  he  had  seen  and  done  since  he 
had  last  been  home — of  the  sights,  and  the  sports,  and  the 
wines,  and  the  breakfasts,  of  the  free  young  life  and  move- 
ment of  Oxford,  of  the  colleges  and  the  quads,  and  the 
walks  and  the  gardens,  and  of  the  meadows  thronged  on 
Show  Sunday,  of  the  barges  laden  with  folk  for  the  boat- 
races — the  longing  to  join  in  it  all,  for  once  in  her  life,  had 
grown  deeper  and  deeper  in  poor  Eaith's  bosom.  It  was 
so  painful  to  think  how  near  that  bright  little  world  was 
brought  to  her  and  yet  how  distant  still,  how  impossible, 
how  unattainable  !  To  Paul,  her  own  brother  whom  she 
loved  so  dearly,  and  from  whom  she  had  learned  so  much, 
it  was  all  a  mere  matter  of  everyday  experience  ;  but  to 
her,  his  sister,  flesh  of  his  flesh  and  blood  of  his  blood,  it 
was  like  the  vague  murmur  of  some  remote  sphere  into 
which  she  could  never,  never  penetrate.  And  now,  the 
mere  receipt  of  this  easy  invitation  made  her  feel  more  than 
ever  the  vastness  of  the  gulf  that  separated  her  from 
Oxford.  Though  Paul  was  in  it  and  of  it,  as  of  right,  to 
her  it  must  forever  be  as  Paradise  to  the  Peri. 

So  she  burst  into  tears  of  pure  unhappiness. 


/•£  vol.  U  TIOS'A  R  Y  sci/r..)fr.  s. 


>5» 


r 


She  couliln't  accept.  Of  course  she  couldn't  accept. 
For  her  to  go  to  O.xford  was  simply  impossible.  It  was  all 
very  well  for  Mrs.  Dou^^las  to  say,  in  her  ^jlib  fashion,  *'  I'll 
stand  no  excuses."  Ihat's  always  the  way  with  these  grand 
folks.  They  get  into  the  habit  of  thinking  everybody  else 
can  manage  things  as  easily  and  simply  as  they  can.  lUit 
how  on  earth  could  Faith  leave  the  infants  in  the  middle  of 
the  term  ?  To  say  nothing  at  all  about  all  the  other  man!, 
fold  difficulties  which  stood  like  litmus  in  the  way — how 
could  she  get  her  i)lace  filled  up  by  pro.vy  ?  how  could  she 
afford  to  pay  her  fare  to  Oxford  and  back,  after  having 
already  allowed  herself  a  tripthis  year  dow.n  to  Dorsetshire 
for  Christmas  ?  and,  above  all,  how  could  she  provide  her- 
self with  those  needful  frocks  for  day  and  night  which  she 
must  needs  wear  at  so  grand  a  place  as  Mrs.  Douglas',  if 
she  didn't  wish  utterly  to  disgrace  Paul  in  the  eyes  of  the 
entire  University  of  Oxford  ' 

All  these  manifold  impossibilities  rose  up  before  poor 
Faith's  eyes  as  she  read  that  exasperating,  tantalizing  letter, 
and  filled  them  with  tears  from  some  interminable  reservoir. 

And  yet  how  tempting  the  invitation  itself  was!  And, 
barring  that  constant  factor  of  the  insensibility  of  "grand 
people"  to  their  neighbors'  limitations,  how  kindly  and 
nicely  Mrs.  Douglas  had  written  to  her  ! 

Faith  would  have  given  a  great  deal  (if  she'd  got  it)  to 
be  able  to  accept  that  cordial  offer  and  see  Oxford.  But 
then,  she  hadn't  got  it,  and  that  was  just  the  difficulty. 
There  was  the  rub,  as  Hamlet  puts  it.  The  golden  apple 
was  dangled  almost  within  her  reach,  yet  not  even  on  tiptoe 
could  she  hope  to  attain  to  it. 

When  her  father  came  to  see  the  letter  at  breakfast  time, 
however,  to  F'aith's  great  and  unspeakable  surprise  he 
turned  it  over,  and,  looking  across  to  Mrs,  Gascoyne,  said 
thoughtfully : 


i    ! 


;  :l 


i^ti  ,    \ 


. 


»s« 


THE   SCAlt.YWAG. 


"Well.  Missus? 


Thcif  was  interrogation  in  his  tone  which  drove  Faith 
half  frantic. 

••Well,  Ktnery?"  his  wife  answered  with  the  same 
intonation. 

'•('ouldn't  ns  manage  this  any  'ow,  mother?"  the  British 
baronet  continued,  lonkinjj  hard  at  the  monogram. 

"No,  wc  couldn't,  Kmcry,  I'nj  afraid,"  Mrs.  dascoync 
made  answer. 

And  that  was  all  I'aith  heard  at)out  it  then.  Her  heait 
sank  once  more  like  lead  to  the  recesses  of  her  bosom. 

But  as  soon  as  she  was  gone  to  endure  the  infants  once 
more,  as  best  she  might,  the  baronet  paused  as  he  pulled  on 
his  boots,  in  prejiaration  for  meeting  the  8.40  down,  and 
observed  mysteriously  to  his  better  half  in  a  confidential 
undertone,  with  a  nod  toward  the  door  whence  Faith  iiad 
just  issued,  •'  You  don't  think  we  could  do  it,  then,  moth-^r, 
don't   you  ?" 

Mrs.  (Jascoyne  hesitated.  "  It'd  cost  a  power  o*  money, 
Emery,"  she  answered  dubiously. 

The  baronet  gazed  at  the  fire  with  an  abstracted  air. 
"We've  made  very  great  sacrifices  for  our  Paul,  missus," 
he  said  with  emphasis,  after  a  short  pause,  during  which  he 
seemed  to  be  screwing  himself  up  for  action  ;  "  we've  made 
very  great  sacrifices  for  our  Paul,  haven't  us  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Emery,"  his  wife  answered,  with  a  wistful  look. 
"  I  don't  deny  we've  made  very  great  sacrifices."  And 
then  she  relapsed  for  a  moment  in  thoughtful  silence. 

"'Taint  as  if  we  was  bound  to  pay  every  penny  we  get 
to  Solomons,"  the  husband  and  father  went  on  again. 
"  Now  Paul's  of  age,  'e's  took  over  a  part  of  the  respon- 
sibility,  mother." 

"That's  so,  Emery,"  Mrs.  Gascoyne  assented. 

"  The   way  I  look  at  it  is  this,"  the  baronet  went  on, 


RE  VOL  U  TIOXA  A' )'  SCHEMES, 


»53 


air. 


on, 


glancing  up  argumentatively,  and  beating  time  witli  \\\% 
pipe  to  the  expn  ssion  of  his  opinion,  like  one  who  expects 
to  enct)iinler  more  opposition.  **  We've  made  very  great 
sacrifices  for  I'aul,  we  'ave,  an'  wy  shouldn't  us  ex  peck  to 
make  some  sort  o'  sacrifices  for  Kaith  as  well  ?  That's  'ow 
I  putts  it." 

"There's  reason  in  that,  no  doubt,"  Mrs.  (lascoyne 
admitted,  very  timorously. 

•'  Now  there's  that  bill  o'  the  colonel's,"  her  husband 
continued  in  a  most  pugnacious  tone,  taking  down  his 
Iedy;er.  •*  Seventeen  pound,  fourteen,  and  tuppence — bin 
owin'  ever  since  Christmas  twelvemonth.  If  only  the 
colonel  could  be  got  to  pa^  up  like  a  man — and  I'll  arst 
him  myself  this  very  day — Faith  won't  go  becos  he  always 
swears  at  'er — there  aint  no  reason  as  I  can  see  wy  Faith 
mightn't  be  let  go  up  to  Oxford." 

'*  'Ow  about  the  infants  ?  "  Mrs.  Gascoyne  interposed. 

••  Infants  be  blowed  I  Drat  them  infants  ! "  her  husband 
answered  energetically. 

"  It's  all  very  well  drattin'  'em,  as  far  as  that'll  go,"  Mrs. 
Gascoyne  answered  with  feminine  common  sense  ;  '•  but 
they  won't  be  dratted  without  a  substitoot.  She's  got  to 
find  somebody  as'll  take  'er  place  with  'em." 

*'  I'll  find  somebody  !  "  the  baronet  answered  with  valor- 
ous resolve.  **  Dang  it  all,  missus,  if  nobody  else  can't  be 
got  to  teach  'em,  wy,  I'll  give  up  drivin'  and  take  'em  my- 
self, sooner'n  she  shouldn't  go,  you  see  if  I  don't." 

*'  She've  set  her  heart  on  goin',"  Mrs.  Gascoyne  said 
once  more  with  a  maternal  sigh.  "  Poor  dear,  she's  a 
longin'  for  it.  I  wouldn't  say  nothin'  to  'er  face  about  it, 
for  fear  of  makin'  'er  too  bashful  like  before  you  ;  but  you 
seen  yourself,  Emery,  her  eyes  was  that  red  and  tired  with 
cryin'." 

**  They  was,"  the  baronet  answered.    **  I  seen  'em  my- 


fi 


'I 


m'  s 


■X 


'1 


I 


i 


r' 


»54 


THE  SCALLYWAG. 


self.  An'  what  I  saj'  is  this,  we've  made  sacrifices  for  Paul, 
very  great  sacrifices,  and  we're  pleased  and  proud  of  'im  ; 
so  wy  shouldn't  we  make  sacrifices  for  Faith  as  well,  as 
'asn't  so  many  chances  in  life  as  'im  of  ever  enjoyin'  of 
'erself  ?" 

"  VVy  not,  sure  ? "  Mrs.  Gascoyne  responded. 

"  Jest  you  look  at  the  letter,  too,"  the  baronet  went  on, 
admiring  the  monogram  and  the  address  in  the  corner. 
"  Anybody  co:'.ld  see  she  was  a  real  tip-topper  in  a  minute 
by  that.  '  The  Red  House,  Norham  Road,  Oxford.'  An* 
a  crest  over  her  name,  same  as  Lady  'Illborough's  !  " 

The  crest  afforded  both  the  liveliest  satisfaction. 

So,  after  much  confabulation,  it  was  finally  resolved  that 
the  baronet  himself  should  beard  the  redoubtable  Colonel 
in  his  den  that  very  day  ;  and  that,  if  the  siege  opentions 
in  that  direction  turned  out  a  success,  Faith  should  be  per- 
mitted to  goto  Oxford.  But  meanwhile,  for  fear  of  failure, 
it  was  duly  agreed  between  the  two  dark  conspirators  that 
nothing  more  should  be  said  to  Faith  on  the  subject. 

That  selfsame  evening,  while  Faith,  with  a  very  white 
face  and  a  trembling  hand,  biting  her  lips  hard  all  the  while 
to  keep  back  the  tears,  was  slowly  composing  a  suitable  re- 
fusal to  Mrs.  Douglas,  Sir  Emery  entered,  much  agitated, 
into  the  hare  living-room,  his  hat  on  his  head  and  his  brow 
steaming,  and  flung  down  a  check  on  the  center  table. 
"  There,  mother,"  he  cried,  half  laughing,  half  crying  him- 
self in  his  joy  :  "  I  said  I'd  do  it,  and  I've  done  it,  by 
George.  He've  paid  mc  up  the  lot — the  whole  bloomin' 
lot — seventeen  pound,  fourteen,  and  tuppence," 

Faith  glanced  up  from  her  letter  aghast.  "  Who  ?  "  she 
cried,  seizing  the  check  in  astonishment.  "  Oh,  father,  not 
the  colonel  ! " 

Her  father  gave  way  to  a  hysterical  burst  of  prolonged 
laughter.    "  Well,  I  thought  'e'd  'a  kicked  me  downstairs 


RE  VOL  U  TIOXAR  Y  SCHEMES. 


155 


nn 

she 
lot 

[ed 

Itrs 


at  first,"  he  said,  chuckling,  "  but  I  made  'un  pay  me.  I 
says,  '  Such  credit,  sir,'  says  I,  *  is  clearly  onreasonable.  I 
don't  want  to  'urry  any  gentleman,  sir,'  says  I,  quite  re- 
speckful  like,  my  'at  in  my  hand,  *  but  if  you  could  any'ow 
make  it  convenient.'  An'  bless  me,  missus,  if  'e  didn't 
whip  out  'is  check-book  on  the  spot,  an'  after  sayin'  in  a 
'nff  I  was  an  impident,  presoomin'  feller  to  venture  to  dun 
'un,  'e  drawed  out  a  check  for  the  lot,  an'  there  it  is  afore 
you.     An'  now.  Faith,  my  girl,  you  can  go  to  Oxford  !  " 

Faith  jumped  up  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  Oh,  I  couldn't, 
father!"  she  cried.  "Not  that  way.  I  couldn't.  It'd 
seem  like  robbing  mother  and  you — and  "Mr.  Solomons." 

But  youth  is  weak  and  time  is  fleeting.  It  was  her  last 
chance  cO  go  to  Oxford.  After  a  little  persuasion  and 
special  pleading  on  her  mother's  part,  Faith  was  brought  at 
last  to  see  matters  in  a  different  light,  and  to  acquiesce  in 
her  father's  reiterated  view,  "  What  I  says  is  this — we've 
made  sacrifices  for  Paul,  and  why  shouldn't  us  make  sacri- 
fices for  Faith  as  well,  missus  ?  " 

So  the  end  of  it  all  was  that  befoie  she  went  to  bed  that 
night  Faith  had  indited  a  second  letter  to  Mrs.  Douglas 
(of  which  she  made  beforehand  at  least  a  dozen  rough 
draughts  of  varying  excellence),  and  that  in  that  letter  she 
accepted  without  reserve  Mrs.  Douglas'  kind  invitation  to 
Oxford.  But  so  profound  washer  agitation  at  this  delight, 
ful  prospect  that  she  could  hardly  hold  her  pen  to  write  the 
words  ;  and  after  she  had  finished  her  first  fair  copy  of  the 
amended  letter,  she  threw  her  head  back  and  laughed 
violently. 

"  What's  the  matter,  dear  heart  ? "  her  mother  asked, 
leaning  over  her. 

And  Faith,  still  laughing  in  hysterical  little  bursts,  made 
answer  back,  "  Why,  I'll  have  to  write  it  out  every  bit  all 
over  again.     I'm  in  such  a  state  of  mind  that  what  do  you 


U 


i '.  k 


'56 


THE  SCALLYWAG. 


think  I've  done  ?  I  was  just  going  to  end  it,  to  Mrs. 
Douglas,  *  tiianlcing  you  f(;r  past  favors,  and  hoping  for  a 
continuance  of  the  same,  I  remain  your  obedient  servant  to 
command,  Emery  Gascoyne  '  !  " 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


IN    GOOD    SOCIETY. 

The  next  week  was  for  Faith  a  crowded  week  of  infinite 
preparations.  There  was  the  question  of  a  substitute  first 
to  be  settled,  and  the  price  of  the  substitute's  honorarium 
to  be  fixed  (as  the  iiead-mistress  magiiiloquently  phrased 
it),  and  then  there  were  three  dresses  to  be  made  forthwith, 
two  for  morning  and  one  for  evening — a  greater  number 
than  Faith  had  ever  before  dreamed  of  ordering  in  her  life 
all  at  one  fell  swoop,  for  her  own  personal  adornment. 
Little  Miss  Perkins,  the  dressmaker  at  Number  Five,  two 
pair  back,  in  the  Court,  was  in  and  out  of  the  Gascoynes' 
all  day  long,  especially  at  lunchtime,  measuring  and  fitting 
and  receiving  instructions  ;  for  Faith  wouldn't  trust  herself 
to  make  with  her  own  hands  those  precious  dresses,  the 
neatest  and  prettiest  she  had  ever  possessed.  But  sympa- 
thetic little  Miss  Perkins  made  them  as  cheaply  as  she 
could  possibly  afford,  being  a  friend  of  the  family  ;  and  the 
stuffs,  thoiigh  new  and  graceful,  were  simple  and  inexpen- 
sive ;  so  that  when  the  bill  itself  at  last  came  in,  even  Faith 
wasn't  overshocked  at  the  joint  price  of  the  three,  and  felt 
easier  in  her  conscience  about  her  hat  and  flowers.  On  the 
Tuesday  night  when  she  tried  them  all  on,  before  an  admir- 
ing committee  of  the  whole  house,  they  were  unanimously 
voted  to  be  without  exception  perfect  successes  ;  and  a 
British  baronet  who  chanced  to  stand  by,  his  hat  in  his 
hand,  remarked  approvingly  in  a  fervor  of  paternal  admira- 


/A^  GOOD  SOCIETY. 


157 


tion  that  he'd  driven*"  more'n  one  young  lady  to  a  ball  in 
his  time,  an'  at  great  houses  about,  too,  who  didn't  look  one 
'arf  as  much  the  lady  as  our  Faith,  God  bless  'er  !  in  that 
pretty  evenin'  dress  of  'ers.  Why,  she  looked  so  fine  he 
was  'arf  afeard  it  was  takin'  a  liberty  to  think  o'  kissin' 
'er." 

Next  afternoon,  in  a  flutter  of  excitement.  Faith  took 
the  train  to  London  and  thence  to  Oxford,  traveling  in  her 
old  Sunday  gown  and  hat,  so  as  not  to  spoil  her  new 
Oxford  dresses. 

On  the  way  v)ne  thought  alone  poisoned  Faith's  enjoy- 
ment, and  that  was  her  fi\ed  expectation  and  belief  that 
Nea  Blair  would  be  *'  awfully  nasty  "  to  her.  Nea  was  one 
of  those  **  grand  girls,"  she  knew.     Her  father  was  a  rector 

down  in  Cornwall  or  somewhere — rich,  no  doubt,  for  he'd 

« 
sent  his  daughter  abroad  for  the  winter  with  a  lady-com- 
panion, but,  at  any  rate,  a  beneficed  clergyman  of  the 
Church  of  England,  and,/herefoe,  as  F'aith  read  the  world 
she  lived  in.  almost  to  a  certainty  proud  and  haughty.  Nea 
would  have  no  end  of  fine  new  dresses,  of  course,  which 
would  throw  poor  Faith's  three  cheap  gowns  entirely  into 
the  shade  ;  and  as  Mrs.  Douglas  would,  no  doubt,  have  told 
her  that  her  fellow-guest  was  a  national  schoolmistress, 
she  would  foolishly  try  to  suggest  between  them,  as  far  as 
possible,  that  "  dim  specter  of  the  salt  "that  Faith  had  read 
about  in  "  Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship,"  and  whose  meaning 
Paul  had  succinctly  explained  to  her. 

From  London  to  Oxford  Faith  traveled  second  class, 
permitting  herself  that  hitherto  unknown  extravagance 
partly  from  a  vague  sense  that  the  occasion  demanded  it, 
but  partly  also  lest  Nea  should  happen  to  be  in  the  same 
train,  and,  traveling  first  herself,  should  set  down  Faith  as 
an  outer  barbarian  if  she  saw  her  descend  from  a  parlia- 
mentary carriage.     At  Oxford  station   Mrs.  Douglas  met 


■\s 


.'  \ 


,./■.). 


!l  I 


w 


158 


r//E  SCALLYWAG. 


her — Archie  was  engaged  tl.at  afternoon  on  one  of  those 
horrid  boards,  slje  said,  delegates  of  lodging  liouses,  or 
something  equally  dull  and  uninteresting  —so  she'd  come 
down  instead  in  her  proper  person  to  hunt  up  their  luggage. 
What  a  pity  they  two  hadn't  traveled  together. 

"  Is  Miss  Blair  in  the  same  train^  then  ? "  Faith  asked  as 
she  descended. 

"Oh,  yes,"  Mrs.  Douglas  answered.  'M  see  her  just 
back  there.  Come  along.  Faith.  Nea,  this  is  Mr.  Gas- 
coyne's  sister.  Now,  my  dears,  what  have  you  done  with 
your  luggage  .''" 

"  Mine's  in  the  van  there,"  Faith  said,  pointing  vaguely 
forward. 

**  And  mine's  partly  under  the  seat,"  Nea  said,  directing 
a  porter  at  the  same  time  to  get  out  a  small  portmanteau 
from — wonder  of  wonders  ! — a  third-class  carriage. 

Three  hot,  disagreeable  feelings  or  ideas  rose  at  once  in 
Faith's  mind.  The  first  was  that  Nea  Blair  had  traveled 
third  on  purpose,  because  she  thought  she  might  meet  her. 
The  second  was  that  she  herself  had  wasted  the  difference 
in  the  fares  all  for  nothing.  And  the  third  was  that  she 
hoped  Mrs.  Douglas  wouldn't  betray  to  Nea  the  fact  that 
the  national  schoolmistress  had  come  down  second.  It 
was  just  like  these  nasty  grand  girls'  condescension  to 
travel  third  on  purpose  to  put  one  out  of  countenance. 

Mrs.  Douglas,  however,  didn't  play  her  false,  and  the 
three  went  off  to  fetch  Nea's  other  box,  which  was  so  big 
that  Faith  fairly  trembled  to  think  how  many  evening 
dresses  might  not  be  in  it.  They  drove  up  together  to  the 
creeper-clad  villa,  and  Faith,  for  the  very  first  time  in  her 
life,  found  herself  actually  in  good  society. 

She  went  to  her  room  very  nervous  indeed,  and  began  to 
get  ready  for  dinner  hastily.  She  put  on  her  one  evening 
frock  with  many  doubts  as  to  what  Nea  would  wear,  and 


IN  GOOD   SOCIE'iY. 


>59 


went  down  at  last,  a  few  minutes  before  the  bell  rang,  into 
the  drawing  room. 

Nea  was  there  before  her,  in  a  dress  still  simpler  and 
more  unstudied  than  her  own  ;  and  as  Faith  entered  she 
drew  her  over  instinctively  somehow  to  the  sofa  with  a 
friendly  gesture. 

"  Oh,  what  a  sweet  gown  !"  she  cried  in  unaffected  ad- 
miration, as  Faith  seated  herself  by  her  side  ;  and,  indeed. 
Faith  did  look  very  beautiful,  with  her  lustrous  black  hair 
knotted  neatly  in  a  roll  at  the  back  of  her  head,  and  her 
dark  eyes  and  olive  complexion  thrown  up  by  the  delicate 
color  of  her  dainty  foulard. 

"  You'll  be  tired  enough  of  it  before  you  go,  I  expect," 
Faith  answered  defiantly  "  for  it's  the  only  evening  frock 
I've  got,  and  1  shall  have  to  wear  it  every  night  while  I 
stop  here."  Her  very  pride  compelled  her  to  fling  her 
poverty  unprovoked  thus  point-blank  at  the  unoffending 
faces  of  others. 

"  Oh,  of  course  ;  one  doesn't  bring  a  whole  stock  of 
dresses  with  one  for  a  short  visit  like  this,"  Nea  answered, 
smiling ;  "  and  this  one's  so  pretty  one  could  r'^ver  get 
tired  of  it.  I  think  that's  the  best  of  simple  gowns — they 
always  look  well  if  you  wear  them  forever  ;  and  nobody 
ever  notices  they've  seen  them  before,  because  they're  so 
unobtrusive.  Whereas,  if  one  has  a  showy,  striking  dress, 
and  wears  it  often,  it  attracts  attention,  and  then  every- 
body says,  *  Oh,  that's  the  same  old  thing  she  wore  last 
season,  don't  you  know,  at  the  So-and-so's  ? '  " 

"  That's  just  what  I  thought,"  Faith  answered,  trying  to 
look  unconcerned,  '*  when  I  ordered  this  one." 

"  And  I  always  say,"  Nea  went  on,  glancing  down  at  her 
own  little  quiet  cashmere,  "  if  one's  poor,  one  should  buy 
the  simplest  possible  things,  which  never  look  out  of  place, 
and  never  go  out  of  fashion." 


V,  W'  fl 


i6o 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


i 
I 


I 

1 1 


She  said  it  in  the  sense  good  society  always  says  such 
things  in — the  purely  relative  sense  which  regards  the 
country  parson's  endowtnent  as  polite  poverty  ;  and  she 
was  thinking  really  of  her  own  wardrobe,  not  of  Faith  Gas- 
coyne's.  But  Faith,  like  all  the  rest  of  us,  chose  to  accept 
the  remark  from  her  own  standpoint,  according  to  which 
Nea  RIair  was  a  "  nasty  grand  girl,"  a  representative  of 
wealth,  rank,  class,  and  fashion.  "If  one's  poor,"  she 
answered,  flaring  up  internally,  "  one  must  buy  what  one 
can  afford  ;  but  that's  no  reason  why  one  should  be  dic- 
tated to  in  that,  or  in  anything  else,  by  others."  For  in  the 
phrase,  "  one  should  buy  the  simplest  possible  things," 
Faith  thoiioht  she  detected  the  hateful  didactic  leaven  of 
the  District  Visitor, 

By  a  rare  flash  of  intuition — due,  perhaps,  to  her  pro- 
foundly sympathetic  and  affectionate  nature — Nea  divined 
with  an  instinctive  insight  the  nature  of  the  error  into  which 
Faith  had  fallen,  and  hastened  to  remove  it  as  delicately  as 
possible.  "  Oh,  I  don't  mean  that  I  do  it  to  please  other 
people,"  she  answered,  with  her  winning  smile  ;  "  I  do  it  to 
please  myself.  Papa  never  dreams  for  a  minute  of  dicta- 
ting to  me  about  dress.  I  get  my  allowance  four  times  a 
year,  and  T  spend  it  as  it  seems  best  to  me." 

Faith  colored   up  with    regret  for  her  foolish   mistake 
which  she  couldn't  fail  now  to  recognize.     "  But  you're  not 
poor  ?  "  she  said,  with  a  marked  emphasis. 

"  We're  certainly  not  rich,"  Nea  replied,  looking  down 
so  as  not  to  meet  those  half-angry  eyes.  *'  Of  course  these 
things  are  all  comparative.  But  I  have  to  be  very  careful 
of  my  expenses." 

"  Well,  but  you  went  abroad  for  the  whole  winter  with  a 
companion,"  Faith  objected  sternly. 

Oh,  that  was  a  very  special  thing,  because  I'd  been  ill. 


« 


liV   GOOD   SOCIETY. 


l6i 


Papa  did  that,  not  because  he  was  rich,  but  because  he  was 
so  anxious  to  make  me  well  again." 

"  1  see,"  Faith  answered,  and  wished  to  herself  people 
wouldn't  use  words  in  sue  i  unnatural  senses.  'I'alk  about 
being  poor  when  you're  a  beneficed  clergyman  of  the 
Church  of  England,  and  can  send  your  daughter  to  a 
good  hotel  on  the  Kiviera,  with  a  hired  companion  to  be 
her  guardian  and  chaperon. 

Presently  the  Douglases  themselves  came  down,  and  the 
four  went  in  to  dinner  together.  "  We  haven't  asked  any- 
body to  meet  you  this  evening,  Nea,"  Mrs.  Douglas  said, 
"because  we  thought  you'd  be  tired  after  your  long  jour- 
ney ;  but  your  brother's  coming  in  for  a  chat  after  dinner, 
Faith  ;  as  he  and  Nea  are  old  friends,  you  know,  we 
thought  he  wouldn't  matter.  And  he's  going  to  bring 
young  'riiistleton  of  Christ  Church  with  him." 

Faith  almost  shook  in  her  chair  at  the  terrible  prospect. 
How  ever  would  she  get  on,  she  wondered,  with  all  these 
fme  people  thrust  at  once  upon  her.  Good  society  began 
positively  to  appall  her. 

Dinner,  however,  passed  off  very  well.  With  Mrs. 
Douglas  herself  Faith  felt  quite  at  home  now  ;  and  the 
professor,  though  prodigiously  learned,  was  a  very 
pleasant  man,  Faith  thought,  with  lots  of  fun  in  him.  Nea 
didn't  always  understand  what  he  said,  apparently  ;  and  it 
struck  Faith  with  some  little  surprise  that  Nea  seemed  on 
the  whole  to  know  less  about  the  subjects  Mr.  Douglas 
discussed  than  she  herself  did.  And  yet  Nea  had  had  the 
very  best  education  !  Strange,  then,  that  she  thought  the 
Prometheus  was  written  by  Sophocles,  when  Faith,  who  had 
read  it  through  in  Paul's  Bohn,  couldn't  imagine  how  anyone 
could  mistake  the  ^schylean  touch  in  it.  And  then  she 
had  never  even  heard  of  Shelley's  "  Prometheus  Unbound  ! " 
Faith  began  to  consider  her  quite  a  little  ignoramus  ? 


f 


'V 


■s' 


«t; 


l63 


THE  SCALLYWAG. 


f     V 

5  < 


If 


I 


The  fact  was,  Faith's  whole  days  had  been  spent  at 
home  (or  with  the  Infants)  and  among  Paul's  books,  and 
her  one  native  longing  and  desire  in  life  was  for  more 
culture.  Hence,  like  many  self-educated  people,  she  had 
a  wide  though  not  a  deep  knowledge  of  books  and  things, 
exactly  suited  to  make  a  brilliant  show  in  general  society  ; 
while  Nea,  whose  tastes  were  by  no  means  learned,  had 
only  acquired  the  ordinary  English  schoolgirl's  stock  of 
knowledge,  and  was  far  behind  Faith  in  everything  that 
pertains  to  general  education. 

The  professor,  for  his  part,  being  an  easy-going  man, 
soon  found  out  that  Faith  and  he  had  most  in  common, 
and  addressed  his  conversation  mainly  to  her  throughout 
the  dinner.  This  flattered  Faith  and  gave  her  confidence. 
She  began  to  suspect  that,  after  all,  she  might  be  able  to 
hold  her  own  fairly  in  Oxford,  if  one  of  the  very  heads  of 
that  learned  society  thought  her  not  wholly  unworthy  of 
wasting  his  time  upon.  Appreciation  brought  out  her  best 
points,  as  opposition  did  her  worst ;  and  before  the  end  of 
the  dinner  she  was  positively  urtlliant. 

Once,  too,  in  the  course  of  it,  she  discovered  to  her  sur- 
prise another  little  point  of  superiority  to  Nea.  The  Cor- 
nish girl  had  been  talking  of  her  experiences  at  Mentone, 
and  had  been  particularly  kind  in  her  remarks  about  Paul, 
which  made  Faith's  face  flush  once  more,  but  this  time  with 
pleasure.  There  was  nothing  she  loved  like  having  Paul 
appreciated. 

**  You  weren't  at  the  same  hotel,  though,"  she  said  after 
a  while.  "  I  suppose  yours  was  a  much  bigger  and  a  more 
expensive  one  ? " 

"Oh,  dear,  no,"  Nea  answered  simply  ;  "your  brother  and 
Mr.  Thistleton  were  at  the  swell  place  ;  but  Mme.  Ceriolo 
took  me  to  quite  a  foreign  house,  that  she  liked  much  bet- 
ter, partly  because  it  was  cheap,  and  partly  because  her 


life! 


IN  GOOD   SOCIETY. 


163 


tastes  are  awfully  cosmopolitan.  I  never  was  in  such  poly- 
glot society  in  my  life  before.  We  had  Poles,  Hungarians, 
Greeks,  Germans,  Swedes,  and  Russians  at  table  d'hSte 
beside  us." 

"  Dear  me,"  Faith  exclaimed,  "  hbw  awkward  that  must 
have  been  !  You  must  have  felt  every  time  you  opened 
your  mouth  that  the  eyes  of  Europe  were  upon  you." 

"  I  did,"  Nea  answered,  with  an  amused  smile.  **  But,  as 
they  didn't  understand  me,  it  didn't  much  matter." 

"  The  conversation  was  all  in  French,  of  course,"  Faith 
went  on  innocently. 

"  With  the  foreigners,  oh,  yes.  But  I  don't  speak  French 
myself  at  all  fluently — not  anything  like  as  well  as  Mr. 
Gascoyne,  for  example.     He  speaks  just  beautifully." 

"  Oh,  1  don't  consider  Paul's  a  very  good  accent,"  Faith 
answered  with  easy  confidence.  "  We  learnt  together 
when  we  were  quite  little  things,  he  and  I,  and  I  know  he 
could  never  pronounce  his  •  r's*  with  the  right  amount  of 
rolling,  or  distinguish  between  words  like  *  tremper '  and 
•  tromper.'  This  is  how  Paul  speaks,"  and  she  repeated  a 
few  lines  of  one  of  Victor  Hugo's  odes  that  they  had  read 
together,  in  perfect  mimicry  of  the  few  English  faults  in  her 
brother's  pronunciation.  They  were  merely  the  minor  tricks 
of  intonation  which  must  almost  inevitably  persist  in  any 
foreigner's  mouth,  however  profound  his  acquaintance  with 
the  language  ;  but  Faith's  quick  feminine  ear  detected 
them  at  once,  compared  with  Mile,  Clarice's  Parisian  flow, 
and  her  ready  tongue  imitated  them  absolutely  to  perfection. 

Nea  listened,  lost  in  amazement.  "  I  shouldn't  know 
that  wasn't  the  purest  Paris  accent,"  she  answered,  half 
jealous  on  Paul's  account.  "  I  thought  myself  Mr.  Gas- 
coyne spoke  admirably." 

"Oh,  no;  this  is  how  it  ought  to  be,"  Faith  answered, 
now  quite  at  home.     And  she  delivered  the  lines  in  excel- 


^^■, 


■^'i 


164 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


I 


lent  French  as  Mile.  (Clarice  herself  might  have  said  them, 
only  with  infinitely  more  appreciation  of  their  literary  vigor. 

Nea  was  astonishej.  '*  You  speak  splendidly,"  she  said. 
••  I'd  give  anything  myself  to  be  able  to  speak  that  way." 

"  Oh,  I've  spoken  ever  since  I  was  two  years  old,'  Faith 
answered  ofthand — for,  to  her,  it  seemed  the  most  common- 
place accomplishment  on  earth  to  be  able  to  talk  like  the 
French  lady's  maid.  But  to  Nea  it  was  proof  of  a  con- 
summate education. 

After  dinner  they  rose  and  went  into  the  drawing  room, 
Faith  feeling  rather  awkward  once  more,  now,  as  to  how  to 
proceed,  and  keeping  her  eyes  firmly  fixed  on  everything 
Nea  did  for  guidance. 

Presently  Paul  and  1.  1  friend  came  in.  F'ailh  walked 
toward  the  door  with  what  self-possession  she  could,  most 
conscious  of  her  gait  as  she  crossed  the  room  and  kissed 
her  brother.  Then  she  turned  and  was  introduced  to  the 
blond  young  man.  Why,  what  a  curiousthing  Paul  should 
never  have  told  her  !  The  blond  young  man  was  ex- 
tremely handsome. 

Paul  had  always  described  Thistleton  as  a  very  good 
fellow  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  but  had  never  enlarged  in 
the  least  upon  his  personal  appearance  ;  and  F^aith  had 
somehow  imbibed  the  idea  that  the  blond  young  man  was 
stumpy  and  unpleasant.  Perhaps  it  was  because  she  had 
heard  he  was  rich,  and  had  therefore  vaguely  mixed  him  up 
in  her  own  mind  with  the  Gorgius  Midas  junior  of  M.  Du 
Maurier's  sketches  in  Piuich.  But  certainly,  when  she  saw 
a  fine,  well-built  young  fellow  of  six  feet  one,  with  intelli- 
gent eyes,  and  a  pleasing,  ingenuous,  frank  countenance, 
she  failed  to  recognize  in  him  altogether  the  Thistleton  of 
whom  her  brother  had  told  her.  The  blond  young  man 
took  her  fancy  at  once  ;  so  much  so  that  she  felt  shy  at  the 
idea  of  talking  to  him. 


fli 


IN  GOOD  SOCIETY, 


105 


For  to  Faith  it  was  a  very  great  ordeal  indecti,  tliin 
sudden  ituroduction  to  a  society  into  which,  till  this 
tnoinent.  she  had  never  penetrateil.  I'he  very  siice  and 
roominess  of  theaparnnents — lh()M);li  the  Douglases'  house 
was  by  no  means  a  hirge  one — the  biilMancy  of  the  gas,  the 
lightness  of  the  costume,  the  llowers  and  decoratiwus,  tlic 
lluffmess,  and  airiness,  and  brij;ht  coUjr  of  everylhinj^,  fairly 
took  her  breath  away.  She  felt  herself  moving  in  a  new 
world  of  gauze  and  glitter.  And  then  to  be  sealed  in  these 
novel  surroundings,  to  undertake  conversation  of  an  un- 
rehearsed kind  with  unknown  strangers,  it  was  almost  more 
than  Faith's  equanimity  was  prcjof  aganist.-  Hut  she  bore 
up  bravely,  nevertheless,  for  very  shame,  and  answered  at 
first,  almost  as  in  a  dream,  all  that  the  blond  young  man 
said  to  her. 

Thistleton,  however,  had  no  such  difficulties,  for  he  was 
born  rich  ;  and  he  talked  away  so  easily  and  pleasantly  to 
the  national  schoolmistress  about  things  she  really  took 
an  interest  in  and  understood  that  at  the  eiul  of  an  hour 
she  was  hardly  afraid  of  him,  especially  as  he  seemed  so 
fond  of  Paul,  and  so  proud  and  pleased  about  his  Marl- 
borough Essay. 

"  I  wanted  to  bet  him  ten  to  one  in  fivers  he'd  get  it," 
Thistleton  remarked,  all  radiant;  "but  he  wouldn't  bet. 
He  knew  he  was  sure  of  it,  and  he  wasn't  going  to  hedge. 
And  all  the  House  was  awfully  glad  of  it.  Why,  the  dean 
himself  called  him  up  and  congratulated  him  !" 

As  for  Paul,  he  talked  most  of  the  time  to  Nea,  with 
occasional  judicious  interventions  on  Mrs.  Douglas'  part, 
who  was  never  so  pleased  as  when  she  could  make  young 
people  happy. 

When  they  took  their  departure  that  evening  Faith  said 
to  her  hostess,  "  What  a  very  nice  young  man  that  Mr. 
Thistleton  is  !  "     As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  the  very  first 


'I 


'% 


-^'ij 


1 66 


THE   SCAIl.YWAG. 


I 


opportunity  she  had  ever  had  of  talkinj;  to  any  young  tnan 
of  (kccnl  education  and  gentlemanly  manners  on  e({ual 
terms,  except  her  own  brother,  and  she  was  naturally  pleased 
with  him. 

Mrs.  Douglas  sljrugged  her  shoulders  a  little  bit — almost 
as  naturally  as  Mme.  Ceriolo. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ? "  she  said.  •'  Well,  he's  nice  enough, 
I  suppose  ;  but  his  manners  haven't  that  repose  that  stamps 
the  caste  of  Vere  de  Vere,  somehow.  He's  a  trifle  too  bois. 
terous  for  my  taste,  you  know.  Good-hearted,  of  course, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  but  not  with  the  stamp  of  blue 
blood  about  him." 

*•  Oh,  nonsense,  my  dear  Eleanor,"  the  professor  ejacu- 
lated with  a  good  round  mouth.  *'  The  young  fellow's  as 
well-behaved  as  most  earls  in  England,  and,  if  it  comes  to 
that,  a  great  deal  better." 

•'  I'm  so  glad  iw/  say  so,  Mr.  Douglas,"  Faith  put  in  with 
a  smile — **  that  it's  nonsense,  I  mean — for  /  should  have 
been  afraid  to." 

•'  Well,  but  really,  Faith,"  Mrs.  Douglas  retorted,  "  he 
isn't  fit  to  hold  a  candle  any  day  to  your  brother  Paul." 

"I  should  think  not,  indeed  !  "  Nea  exclaimed  immedi- 
ately with  profound  conviction.  "  VVhy,  Mr.  Gascoyne's 
just  worth  a  thousand  of  him  !  " 

Faith  turned  with  a  grateful  look  to  Nea  for  that  kindly 
.sentence  ;  and  yet  she  would  have  liked  the  praise  of  Paul 
all  the  better  if  it  hadn't  been  contrasted  with  the  dispraise 
of  Mr.  Thistleton,  For  her  part,  she  thought  him  a  most 
delightful  young  man,  and  was  only  sorry  he  was  so  dread- 
fully rich,  and  therefore,  of  course,  if  one  got  to  know  him 
better,  no  doubt  nasty. 

They  parted  in  the  passage  outside  Faith's  bedroom,  and 
Nea,  as  she  said  "  Good-night,  dear,"  to  her  new  friend, 
leant  forward  to  kiss  her.     Faith  hesitated  for  a  moment : 


IDYLS  0/     YOUTH. 


167 


she  wasn't  accustomecl  to  cheapen  her  embraces  in  the 
usual  feline  feminine  nunner,  and  as  yet  she  didn't  feel 
sure  of  Nea  ;  but  next  instant  she  yielded,  and  pressed  hrm 
cumpanion's  hand.  "  I'hank  you  so  much,"  she  said  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  and  darted  into  her  room.  Unt  Nea 
didn't  even  so  much  as  know  for  what  she  thanked  her. 

Faith  meant  for  not  having  been  •*  jjiand  "  and  crushed 
her.    To  herself  she  was  always  the  national  schoolmistress. 

but  Nea  saw  in  her  only  a  graceful,  handsome,  well- 
bred  girl,  and  I'aul  (iascoyne's  sister.* 

So  ended  Faith  Gascoyne's  first  equally  dreaded  and 
longed-for  evening  in  good  society. 

Outside  the  Douglases'  door  'I'histleton  paused  and 
looked  at  his  friend. 

"  Why,  dascoyne,"  he  said,  "  you  never  told  me  what  a 
beautiful  girl  your  sister  was,  and  so  awfully  clever  !  " 

Paul  smiled.  '*  As  a  rule,"  he  said,  *'  men  don't  blow  the 
trumpet  for  their  own  female  relations." 

Thistleton  accepted  the  explanation  in  silence,  and  walked 
along  mute  for  two  or  three  minutes.  Then  he  began  again, 
almost  as  if  to  himself :  "  But  this  one,"  he  said,  *•  is  so 
exceptionally  beautiful." 

Paul  was  aware  of  an  uncomfortable  sensation  at  the 
base  of  his  throat,  and  diverted  the  conversation  to  the 
chances  of  a  bump  on  the  first  night  of  the  races. 

CHAPTER  XIX. 


IDYLS  OF  YOUTH. 


To  Faith  those  ten  delicious  days  at  Oxford  were  a  dream 
fulfilled — pure  gold  every  one  of  them.  How  glorious 
were  those  strolls  round  Magdalen  cloisters  ;  those  fre.sh 
morning  walks  in  Christ  Church  Meadows  ;  those  afternoon 


ill 


i68 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


lounges  in  the  cool  nooks  of  Wadham  Gardens!  How 
grand  the  tower  of  uicrton  loomed  up  in  moonlight  ;  how 
ttubie  was  the  prospect  of  the  crowded  High,  with  the 
steeple  of  St.  Mary's  and  Land's  porch  in  the  middle  dis- 
tance, viewed  from  the  stone  steps  of  Queen's  or  Univer- 
sity !  How  slie  loved  each  moldtripjy  pinnacle  of  Oriel, 
each  vaulted  boss  in  the  great  roof  of  Christ  Church  ! 
What  delightful  afternoon  teas  in  Tom  Quad  ;  what  luxuri- 
ous breakfasts  in  the  New  Buildings  at  IJalliol  !  To  the 
national  schoolmistress,  fresh  from  the  din  of  the  infants 
and  the  narrow  precincts  of  Plowden's  Court,  the  height 
and  breadth  and  calm  and  glory  of  those  majestic  colleges 
were  something  unknown,  unpictured,  unfancied.  Even 
after  all  Paul  had  told  her,  it  eclipsed  and  effaced  her  best 
ideal.  She  had  only  one  pang — that  she  must  so  soon 
leave  it  all. 

And  what  a  grand  phantasmagoria  it  produced  in  her 
mind,  that  whirling  week  of  unparalleled  excitement  !  In 
the  morning  to  view  the  Bodleian  or  the  Radcliffe,  to  walk 
under  the  chestnuts  on  the  Chervvellbank,  or  to  admire  from 
the  bridge  the  soaring  tower  of  Magdalen.  At  midday  to 
lunch  in  some  undergraduate's  quarters,  or  with  bearded 
dons  in  some  paneletl  common  room  :  for  Mrs.  Douglas 
was  known  to  be  the  best  of  hostesses,  and  whoever  saw 
Oxford  under  her  auspices  was  sure  not  to  lack  for  entertam- 
ment  or  for  entertainments.  In  the  afternoon  to  float  down 
the  river  to  Ififley  in  a  tub  pair,  or  to  lounge  on  padded 
punts  under  the  broad  shade  of  Addison's  walk  ;  or  to 
drink  tea  in  rooms  looking  out  over  tlie  Renaissance  court 
of  St.  John's  ;  or  to  hear  the  anthem  trilled  from  sweet 
boyish  throats  in  New  College  Chanel.  In  the  evening  to 
dine  at  home  or  abroad  in  varied  company  ;  to  listen  to 
some  concert  in  the  hall  of  Exeter;-  or  to  see  the  solemn 
inne    .^vad  of  Jesus  'ncongruously  decked  out  with  Japan- 


IDYLS  OF    YOUTH. 


169 


to 
to 
mn 
■an- 


ese  lanterns  and  hanging  lightr,  for  a  Cymric  festival.  A 
new  world  seemed  to  open  out  all  at  once  before  her  :  a 
world  all  excitement,  pleasure,  and  loveliness. 

To  most  girls  brought  up  in  quiet,  cultivated  homes,  a 
visit  to  Oxford  is  one  long  whirl  of  dissipation.  To  Faith, 
brought  up  in  the  cabman's  cottage,  it  was  a  perfect  revel- 
ation of  art,  life,  and  beauty.  It  sank  into  her  soul  like 
fust  love.  If  you  can  imagine  a  bird's-e;  j  view  of  Flor- 
ence, Paris,  and  educated  society  rolled  into  one,  that  is 
somethi'.ig  like  what  those  ten  days  at  Oxford  were  to 
F'aith  Gascoyne. 

Every  night  Nea  Blair  went  out  with  her,  and  every  night, 
to  Faith's  immense  surprise,  Nea  wore  the  same  simple 
cashmere  dress  she  had  worn  at  Mrs.  Douglas'  that  first 
evening.  It  made  Faith  feel  a  great  deal  more  at  home 
with  her  ;  and  after  three  days,  indeed,  she  got  quite  over 
her  fear  of  Nea.  Nea  was  so  gentle,  so  sweet,  so  kind,  it 
was  impossible  for  anybody  long  to  resist  her.  By  the 
third  evening  they  were  sworn  friends,  and  when  F'aith 
went  up  with  her  after  the  little  carpet-dance  to  bed,  it  was 
actually  with  her  arm  round  the  "  grand  girl's  "  waist  that 
she  mounted  the  staircase. 

On  the  morning  of  their  fourth  day  at  Oxford  they  were 
walking  in  the  High  with  Mrs.  Douglas — on  their  way  to 
visit  the  reredos  at  All  Souls — when  just  outside  the  doors 
of  the  Mitre,  Nea  was  suddenly  stopped  by  a  golden-haired 
apparition, 

"Oh,  my,  momma  !  "  the  apparition  exclaimed  in  a  fine 
Pennsylvanian  twang,  "  if  here  aint  Nea  Blair,  as  large  as 
life  and  twice  as  natral  !  Well,  now,  I  do  call  that  jest 
lovely  !  To  think  we  should  meet  you  here  again,  Nea  ! 
But  I  felt  it  somehow  ;  I  said  to  momma  this  morning  as 
we  were  unloading  the  baggage  down  at  the  cars,  *  I 
shouldn't  be  a  bit  surprised  if  Nea  Blair's  at  Oxford.'     I 


\^^ 


i.  i '! 

■i 


uiji 


lyo 


THE  SCALLYWAG. 


i 


Jl 


■S 


knew  you  were  coming  up  this  summer  term,  you  know,  to 
visit  friends,  and  I  kind  of  guessed  we  should  probably 
synchronize." 

•*  Nea,  my  dear,"  Mrs.  Douglas  remarked  with  chilly  dig- 
nity, "  will  you  introduce  your  acquaintances." 

For  Mrs.  Douglas's  British  back  was  considerably  stif- 
fened by  the  newcomer's  obvious  lack  of  the  Vere  de  Vere 
emotional  temperament. 

"  This  is  Miss  Boyton,"  Nea  said,  presenting  her  ;  "she 
waswi'.h  us  at  Mentone.     And  this  is  Mrs.  Boyton." 

For  vhere  Isabel  was,  there  her  mother  sank  naturally 
into  the  background. 

**  Yes  ;  and,  my  dear,  we've  only  jest  arrived  !  We  wired 
to  Mr.  Thistleton  to  engage  rooms  for  us  at  the  Mitre. 
There's  another  hotel  at  Oxford,  he  told  us — the  Randolph 
— bui.  it  doesn't  sound  so  mediaeval  and  English  and  aristo- 
cratic as  the  Mitre.  And  now  we've  come  out  to  look 
around  a  bit  and  see  the  city." 

**  Oh,  you're  Mr.  Thistleton's  guests,  are  you?"  Faith 
asked,  with  a  faint  undercurrent  of  suspicion,  for  she  didn't 
half  like  this  sudden  intrusion  of  the  golden-haired  Penn- 
sylvanian  upon  her  special  undergraduate.  Though  she 
had  only  been  three  days  at  Oxford,  Thistleton  had  already 
been  most  marked  in  his  politeness,  and  Faith,  though  inno- 
cent as  a  child  of  ulterior  designs  upon  the  rich  young  man, 
didn't  want  to  have  his  immediate  kind  attention  diverted 
upon  others. 

**  Yes,  indeed,"  Isabel  answered,  "  We've  gotten  our  own 
rooms  for  ourselves  at  the  Mitre,  of  course,  but  we  expect 
Mr.  Thistleton  to  walk  us  around  and  give  us  a  good  time 
while  we  stop  in  Oxford.  Mamma  and  I  are  looking  for- 
ward  to  enjoying  ourselves  all  the  time.  Oh,  don't  the 
place  look  jest  lovely  ?" 

"  It  is  lovely,"  Nea  said  ;  *'  I  always  enjoy  it  so  much. 


IDYLS  OF   YOUTH. 


171 


But  why  did  you  telegraph  to  Mr.  Thistleton,  instead  of 
Mr.  Gascoyne  ?  We  saw  so  much  more  of  Mr.  Gascoyne 
at  Mentone." 

"  Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,"  Isabel  answered,  "  I  didn't 
jest  feel  like  asking  Mr.  Gascoyne  :  while  that  young  This- 
tleton fellow — he's  a  real  good  sort,  but  only  a  boy,  you 
know,  so  I  didn't  mind  asking  him." 

"This  is  Mr.  Gascoyne's  lister,"  Nea  said,  with  a  slight 
wave  toward  Faith,  who  stood  irresolute  in  the  background. 
"She's  stopping  with  me  at  Mrs,  iJouglas'.  We're  going 
just  now  to  see  one  of  the  colleges — All  Souls. 

"  Well,  I  don't  mind  if  we  catch  on  to  it,"  Isabel  answered 
briskly.  "  We've  jest  come  out  to  see  what  the  place  is 
like,  and  one  college  '11  do  for  us,  I  presoom,  as  well  as 
another.  According  to  the  guide  the  city  must  be  full  of 
them." 

Mrs.  Douglas  knocked  under  with  condescending  tact. 
She  recollecteu  that  Nea  had  told  her  Miss  Bcyton  was 
rich  ;  and,  after  all,  there  are  always  lots  of  nice  young  men 
lying  about  loose  who'd  be  glad  to  pick  up  with  a  rich  and 
pretty  American. 

"  If  your  mamma  and  you  would  like  to  join  our  party," 
she  said  with  her  best  second-class  smile  (Mrs.  Douglas' 
smiles  were  duly  graduated  for  all  ranks  of  society),  "  I'm 
sure  we  shall  be  delighted.  Any  friends  of  Nea's  are 
always  welcome  to  us." 

So  from  that  moment  forth  the  Boytons  were  duly 
accepted  as  part  and  parcel  of  Mrs.  Douglas'  set  during 
that  crowded  race  week.  They  went  everywhere  with 
Faith  and  Nea,  and  shared  in  much  of  the  undergraduate 
feasts  which  Mrs.  Douglas  offered  vicariously  for  her 
young  friends'  amusement.  Undergraduate  Oxford  loves 
anything  fresh,  and  Isabel  Boyton's  freshness,  at  any  rate, 
was  wholly  beyond  dispute.     Before  the  week  was  out,  the 


-'I 


,1 


II 


B 


: 

'  cIl  •■ 

m 

b' 

Bi 

^Br 

n« 

■a-t 

1 

B 

■ 

H 

1 

^■l 

l' 

1 

172 


7V7iE'   SCALLYIVAG. 


golden-haired  Pennsylvanian  had  become  a  feature  in 
Christ  Church,  and  even  betting  was  offered  in  Peckwater 
wiiether  or  not  (iascoyne  would  marry  her. 

The  same  evening  Mrs.  Douglas  gave  her  first  dinner 
party  for  her  two  guests,  and  as  they  sat  in  the  drawing 
room,  just  before  the  earliest  outsider  arrived,  Mrs.  Douglas 
turned  to  Faith  (Nea  hadn't  yet  come  down)  and  remarked 
parenthetically  : 

"  Oh,  by  the  way,  Mr.  Thistleton  will  take  you  in  to  din- 
ner, my  dear.  He'll  go  after  your  brother  Paul,  and  then 
Mr.  Wade  Ml  take  in  Nea." 

Faith  shrank  back  a  little  alarmed. 

*•  Oh,  but  tell  me,  Mrs.  Douglas,"  she  cried,  somewhat 
shamefaced,  "  why  mayn't  I  go  last  ?  I  don't  want  to  go 
in  before  Nea." 

Mrs.  Douglas  shook  her  head  in  most  decided  disap- 
proval. "  It  can't  be  helped,  my  child,"  she  said.  "  It's 
not  my  arrangement.  I've  got  nothing  on  earth  to  do  with 
settling  the  table  of  precedence.  It's  the  Lord  Chamber- 
lain who  has  long  ago  decided  once  for  all  that  your  brother 
Paul,  as  a  baronet's  son,  walks  in  before  young  Thistleton, 
and  that  you,  as  a  baronet's  daughter,  walk  in  before 
Nea." 

Faith  gave  a  little  gesture  of  extreme  dissatisfaction. 
This  playing  at  baronetcy  was  to  her  most  distasteful. 

"  I  can't  bear  it,"  she  cried.  "  Do,  dear  Mrs.  Douglas, 
as  a  special  favor,  let  Nea  at  least  go  in  before  me." 

But  Mrs.  Douglas  was  inflexible.  "  No,  no,"  she  said, 
"  none  of  your  nasty  Radical  leveling  ways  for  me,  turning 
society  topsy-turvy  with  your  new  fangled  ideas,  and  all 
just  to  suit  your  own  unbridled  fancy.  People  of  quality 
must  behave  as  such.  If  you  happen  to  be  born  a  baronet's 
daughter  you  must  take  precedence  of  a  country  parson's 
girl.     Noblesse  oblige.     That's  the  price  you  have  to  pay  for 


IDYLS  OF    YOUTH. 


173 


being  born  in  an  exalted  station  in  life.  You  must  fulfill 
the  duties  that  belong  to  your  place  in  society." 

So,  with  a  very  bad  grace,  poor  Faith  yielded. 

When  Nea  came  down,  Faith  observed  with  surprise  that 
she  was*  wearing  even  now  the  same  simple  cashmere  dress 
as  on  the  first  night  of  her  visit.  Faith  had  expected  that 
for  this  special  function  at  least  Nea  would  have  appeared 
arrayed,  like  Solomon,  in  all  her  glory,  lint,  no ;  the 
plain  cashmere  was  still  to  the  front,  invariable  as  Faith's 
own  delicate  foulard.  A  curious  thought  flashed  across 
Faith's  mind  ;  could  the  "grand  girl"  herself,  as  she  still 
sometimes  thought  her,  have  brought  but  one  evening  dress 
in  her  box,  just  as  she  harself  had  done  ? 

For,  after  all.  Faith  began  to  observe  that,  in  a  deeper 
sense  than  she  had  at  first  expected,  we  are  all  in  the  last 
resort  built  of  much  the  same  mold,  and  that  the  differ- 
ences of  high  and  low  are  a  great  deal  more  mere  differ- 
ences of  accent,  speech,  and  diess  than  of  intellect  or 
emotion. 

That  evening  Mr.  Thistleton,  she  thought,  was  more 
attentive  to  her  than  ever  ;  and  when  she  spoke  to  him 
once  about  the  golden-haired  apparition  that  had  flashed 
upon  them  in  the  High  Street  from  the  Mitre  that  morning 
he  only  laughed  good-naturedly,  and  remarked,  with  toler- 
ant contempt,  that  Miss  Boyton  was  "  real  racy  "  of  Amer- 
ican soil,  and  that  her  mamma  was  a  most  amiable  and 
unobtrusive  old  Egyptian  mummy. 

"You  saw  a  good  deal  of  he;  at  Mentoi^e,  I  suiipose," 
Faith  said,  looking  up  at  him  f'  >>m  her  ottoman  in  the  niche. 

"Yes,  and  heard  a  good  deal  of  her,  too,"  Thistleton 
answered,  smiling.  "She  wasn't  born  to  blush  unseen, 
that  excellent  Miss  Boyton.  Wherever  she  goes  she  makes 
herself  felt.  She's  amusing,  that's  all  :  one  endures  her 
because  one  gets  such  lots  of  fun  out  of  her." 


*i  ^  ui 


174 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


"  But  she's  very  rich,  Paul  says,"  Faith  murmured 
abstractedly. 

"Oh,  tliev  grow  'em  very  rich  in  America,  I  fancy,"  the 
blond  young  man  replied  with  careless  ease.  "  So  do  we 
in  Yorkshire,  too  ;  we  don't  set  much  store  by  that  up  in 
the  North,  you  know.  People  are  all  rolling  in  money  with 
us  in  Sheffield.  To  be  rich  up  there  is  positively  vulgar,  as 
far  as  that  goes.  The  distinguished  thing  in  the  North  is 
to  be  poor,  but  cultured.  It's  almost  as  fashionable  as  being 
poor,  but  honest,  used  once  to  be  in  Sunday  school  litera- 
ture." 

•'  Still,  she's  pretty,  don't  you  think,  in  her  own  way  ? " 
Faith  asked,  pleading  Miss  Boyton's  case  out  of  pure 
perversity. 

"  She's  pretty  enough,  if  you  go  in  for  prettiness,"  the 
blond  young  man  retorted  with  a  glance  of  admiration  at 
Faith's  own  raven  hair  and  great  speaking  eyes.  "  I  don't 
myself — I  don't  like  women  to  be  pretty." 

"  Don't  like  them  to  be  pretty !  "  Faith  repeated,  aghast. 

"  No,"  the  blond  young  man  replied  stoutly.  "  I  prefer 
beauty  to  prettiness.  I  never  cared  much  for  tow-haired 
dolls.  Eyes  with  a  soul  in  them  are  much  more  to  my 
taste.  Besides,"  he  added,  breaking  off  suddenly,  "  she's 
not  quite  our  sort,  you  know,  Miss  Gascoyne." 

'*  Our  sort  ?  "  Faith  echoed  interrogatively,  taken  aback 
at  the  inclusiveness  of  that  first  person  plural.  "  I — I  don't 
quite  understand  you." 

"  Well,  jt'/zA-  sort  then,"  the  blond  young  man  corrected, 
with  imperturbable  good  humor,  "  if  you  won't  let  me 
reckon  myself  in  the  same  day  with  you.  I  mean  she's  not 
a  person  of  any  birth  or  position  or  refinement  ;  she's  a 
parvenue^  you  know,  a  perfect  parve7iue.  I  don't  mean  to 
say  I  go  in  for  a  Plantagenet  ancestry  myself,"  he  con- 
tinued quickly,  seeing  Faith  was  trying  hard  to  put  in  a  word 


WYLii  OF    YOUTH. 


175 


and  interrupt  him;  "but  I  don't  like  people' quite  so 
fresiily  fledged  as  slie  is.  I  prefer  them  with  some  tincture 
of  polite  society." 

Faith  blushed  up  to  the  eyes  with  some  strange  sense  of 
shame.  It  was  so  novel  a  position  for  her  to  find  herself  in, 
that  she  hardly  knew  how  to  brazen  it  out.  "  She  was  very 
well  received  at  Mentone,"  she  stammered  out  uneasily. 

"  At  Mentone  ?  Oh,  yes;  in  a  cosmopolitan  place  like  that 
one  can  swallow  anybody — why  we  even  swallowed  Miss 
Blair's  chaperon,  that  delightful  little  humbug  and  adven- 
turess, Mme.  Ceriolo,  who  anywhere  else  in  the  world 
would  have  been  impossible.  But,  hang"  it  all  !  you  know. 
Miss  Gascoyne,  you  wouldn't  like  your  own  brother,  now, 
for  instance,  to  marry  her  ? " 

Faith  looked  down,  and  hardly  knew  what  to  say.  "If 
ever  Paul  marries,"  she  answered  at  last,  speaking  out  her 
whole  heart,  "I  should  like  him  to  marry — someone  more 
worthy  of  him." 

As  she  spoke  she  lifted  her  eyes  again,  and  met  Nea 
Blair's,  who,  seated  close  by,  had  just  caught  by  accident 
the  last  few  words  of  their  conversation.  Nea  let  her 
glance  fall  upon  the  carpet,  and  colored  faintly.  Then 
Faith  felt  sure,  with  an  instinctive  certainty,  that  Nea  was 
not  wlolly  indifferent  to  her  penniless  brother. 

When  they  went  upstairs  that  night  again,  they  sat  long 
talking  in  Nea's  room  till  their  candles  had  burned  low  in 
the  socket.  They  talked  unrestrainedly,  like  two  bosom 
friends.  Faith  wasn't  afraid  any  longer  of  the  "  grand 
girl  "  now.  She  was  more  at  home  with  Nea  than  she 
had  ever  been  with  anybody  else,  except  Paul,  before. 
As  she  rose  at  last,  reluctantly,  to  go  to  bed,  she  held  Nea's 
hand  a  long  time  in  hers.  *'  Nea,"  she  said,  pressing  it 
hard,  "  how  strange  it  all  seems!  I  was  so  afraid  to  meet 
you  only  four  days  since — though  it's  like  a  year  now,  for 


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}■:,! 


176 


THE   SCALLYWAG, 


every  day's  been  so  crammed  with  pleasure — and  to-night  I 
can'l  bear  to  think  I've  got  to  go  back  so  soon  to  my  school 
once  more,  and  my  dull  routine,  a4id  my  petty  life,  and 
never  again  see  anything  more  of  you.  It's  been  all  like  a 
beautiful,  beautiful  dream — meeting  you  here,  and  all  the 
rest — and  I  shall  feel  so  sad  to  have  to  go  away  by  and  by 
and  leave  it  all." 

**  Perhaps  we  shall  meet  often  again  in  the  future  now 
we've  once  got  to  know  and  love  each  other,"  Nea  an- 
swered, soothing  her. 

F'aith  turned  with  the  candle  in  her  hand  to  go.  (jreat 
tears  were  in  her  eyes.     She  trembled  violently. 

"  No,  no,"  she  said  ;  "I  sometimes  think  it's  all  a  mis- 
take  ever  for  a  moment  to  come  out  of  one's  native  sphere. 
It  makes  the  revulsion  seem  all  the  worse  when  you  have 
to  go  back  to  it." 


CHAPTER  XX. 


BREAKING    THE    ICE. 

The  row  up  the  river  to  Ensham  was  delightful,  the  sky 
was  blue,  the  meadows  were  green,  the  water  was  clear,  and 
the  lilies  that  lolled  like  Oriental  beauties  on  its  top  were 
snow-white  and  golden.  Only  one  thing  damped  Faith's 
and  Nea's  happiness — it  was  the  last  day  of  their  visit  to 
Oxford. 

They  had  much  to  regret.  The  gardens  were  so  beauti- 
ful, the  colleges  so  calm,  the  river  so  peaceful — and  the  two 
young  men  had  been  so  very  attentive. 

Faith  wondered  how,  after  Mr.  Thistleton's  open  and  un- 
affected homage,  she  could  ever  endure  the  boorish  polite- 
ness of  the  few  young  fellows  she  saw  from  time  to  time 
after  rare  intervals  at  Hillborough,     Nea  wondered  how, 


BREAK'IXG    THE   ICE, 


177 


after  seeing  so  much  of  that  nice  Mr.  (iascoyne  at  Meutone 
and  Oxford,  she  couUI  ever  relai)se  into  the  hutndruni  hfe  of 
keeping  house  for  her  father  in  the  Cornish  Rectory.  Mr. 
(Iascoyne  was  so  clever,  and  so  full  of  beautiful  ideas!  lie 
seemed  to  be  so  thoroughly  human  all  through.  Nea  loved 
to  hear  him  talk  about  men  and  things.  .Vnd  she  really  did 
think,  in  a  sort  of  way,  that  Mr.  (iascoyne,  perha[)s  to  some 
extent,  liked  her. 

So  when  she  found  herself,  after  lunch  at  Mrs.  Doug- 
las* picnic,  strolling  away  with  Paul  toward  the  held 
where  the  fritillaries  grow,  and  the  large  purple  orchises, 
she  was  conscious  generally  of  a  faint  thrill  of  pleasure — 
that  strange,  indefinite,  indefinable  thrill  which  goes  so 
much  deeper  than  the  shallow  possibilities  of  our  hap- 
hazard language. 

They  wandered  and  talked  for  many  minutes,  picking 
the  great  chequered  blossoms  as  they  moved,  and  never 
thinking  whither  they  went,  either  with  their  feet  or  their 
tongues,  as  is  the  wont  of  adolescence.  Nea  was  full  of 
praise  for  Faith — such  an  earnest  girl,  so  sincere  and 
profound  when  you  came  to  know  her;  and  Paul,  who, 
to  a  great  extent,  had  been  Faith's  teacher,  was  proud 
that  his  pupil  should  be  liked  and  appreciated.  *'  liut  what 
a  pity,"  Nea  said  at  last,  "  we  should  have  to  part  to- 
morrow  !     For  we've  both  of  us  got  on  so  well  together." 

"It  is  a  pity,"  Paul  said,  "  a  very  great  pity.  Faith  has 
never  enjoyed  anything  so  much  in  her  life,  I  know  ;  and 
your  being  there  has  made  it  doubly  enjoyable  for  her." 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  to  hear  you  say  so"  Nea  exclaimed, 
with  evident  delight.  "  You  can't  think  how  much  I've  en- 
joyed having  her  there  too.  She's  a  dear  girl.  We've  had 
such  long,  long  talks  together  in  our  own  rooms  every  even- 
ing. And,  do  you  know,  Mr.  Gascoyne,"  she  added  shyly, 
"  before  she  came  I  was  so  afraid  of  meeting  her." 


i'fi 


.. ' 


1  i 


178 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


••  Why?"  Paul  asked,  unable  to  understand  such  a  feel- 
ing toward  Kaith  on  the  part  of  a  born  lady  like  Nea. 

•*  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  Nea  answered.  "  I  can't  exactly 
say  why.  Ihit,  sometimes,  when  you  want  to  like  some- 
body  ever  so  much,  don't  you  know,  you're  so  afraid  in 
return  they  won't  like  you." 

"And  you  wanted  to  like  Faith?"  Paul  asked, all  tremulous. 

"I  wanted  to  like  her,  oh,  ever  so  much.  liut  I  was 
afraid  she  mijjhtn't  take  a  fancy  to  me.  It  often  happens 
so,  of  course  ;  but  I  did  not  want  it  to  be  so  with  her. 
And  now  I'm  sure  she  likes  me  very  much,  and  that's  such 
a  comfort  to  me." 

"  You're  very  kind,"  Paul  answered,  embarrassed. 

There  was  a  long  pause,  and  their  eyes  met.  Eyes  can 
say  so  much  more  than  tongues.  Nea's  fell  again  as  she 
added  slowly :  "  And  I  hope  now  we  shall  meet  very,  very 
often." 

"Who?  You  and  Faith?"  Paul  cried,  biting  his  lip 
hard,  and  holding  in  his  words  with  difficulty. 

"  Yes,"  Nea  said.  "  Some  day  she  must  come  down  to 
Cornwall  and  see  us." 

Paul  looked  up  from  the  fritillaries,  and  felt  his  heart  beat 
and  heave. 

"  That  can  never,  never  be,"  he  answered  solemnly. 

Nea  turned  to  him  all  at  once  with  an  astonished  look. 

"  Never  !  Mr.  Gascoyne  ?  "  she  cried.  "Oh,  don't  say 
that !  I  want  to  meet  her  very  often  now.  We're  friends 
for  life.     Why  shouldn't  I  see  her  ?" 

It  was  one  of  those  moments  in  a  man's  life  when,  do 
what  he  will,  the  passion  within  him  gets  the  better  of  him 
and  outmasters  him.  He  looked  into  Nea's  deep  eyes — 
those  eyes  he  would  never  see  after  to-morrow  again — and 
answered  in  a  tone  of  poignant  regret,  "  Because  you  and 
I  must  keep  as  far  apart  as  we  can  from  one  another." 


HRKAK'/XG    THE   UK. 


•79 


Nea  more  than  half  guessed  his  meaning  at  once,  but  she 
woiiUI  have  it  direct  from  his  own  very  hps  before  she 
wouhl  heUeve  it. 

"  And  why,  Mr.  Ciascoyne  ?  "  she  asked  with  a  throbbing 
heart. 

*'  Hecause,"  Paul  said  boldly,  bhirling  out  the  wliole 
truth  in  spite  of  himself,  "  Nea,  I  hn'e  you." 

There  was  a  faint,  short  interval,  during  which  Nea  filt 
a  scjrt  of  electric  ((itiver  pass  all  through  her  frame  ;  aiui 
then  she  murmured  very  low,  "  Thank  you,  Mr.  (iascoyne, 
thank  you." 

"  And  I'm  afraid,"  Paul  went  on — with  insensate  folly,  as 
he  thought  to  himself — "  I'm  afraid — I'm  sure — you  love 
me  a  little  in  return,  Nea." 

Nea  raised  her  eyes,  one  blush  from  chin  to  forehead, 
and  met  his  gaze  bashfully. 

*•  More  than  that — a  great  deal,"  she  said  with  a  tremor. 

Paul  sat  down  on  the  dry  bank  by  the  hedge,  and  seated 
Nea  gently  on  a  big  stone  beside  him. 

••  And  though  I  shall  never  see  you  again  after  to- 
morrow,"  he  said,  "  I  was  wicked  enough  and  foolish 
enough — it  came  over  me  so  just  now — that  I  could  not 
avoid  giving  myself  the  satisfaction  of  telling  you  so." 

**  I'm  glad  you  did,"  Nea  murmured  through  the  tears 
that  struggled  hard  to  rise  and  choke  her  utterance.  "  I 
like  to  know  it." 

**  It  was  very  wrong  of  me,  very  wrong  of  me,"  Paul 
cried,  already  penitent ;  "  but,  Nea,  I  can't  be  sorry  I  did, 
v/hen  I  think  how  sweet,  how  delicious  it  is  for  me  to  know 
that  through  all  my  future  life  I  can  carry  away  the  memory 
of  those  words  you  just  uttered.  *  More  than  that,  a  great 
deal ' — I  shall  never  forget  them." 

"  Thank  you,"  Nea  cried  once  more,  with  sweet  sim- 
plicity. 


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THE   SCALLYWAG. 


Paul  looked  at  her  long,  with  a  great  yearning  in  his 
heart. 

"  And  it's  hard  to  think,"  he  went  on,  *'  we  must  part  for- 
ever to-morrow." 

"Why  forever?"  Nea  asked,  looking  back  at  him  again 
with  womanly  trust.  "Why  forever,  Mr.  Gascoyne  ?  If 
you  love  me,  and  I  love  you,  why  need  it  be  forever  ?" 

Paul  tore  a  purple  fritillary  to  pieces  nervously. 

"  Oh,  what  have  I  done?"  he  said,  looking  up  at  her 
anxiously.  "  Why  did  I  ever  begin  it  ?  I've  acted  so 
wrong,  so  wickedly,  so  cruelly  !  I  ought  never  to  have 
spoken  to  you  on  the  subject  at  all.  I  ought  to  have  locked 
it  up  tight — tight  in  my  own  bosom." 

"  I  should  have  found  it  out,  even  if  you  hadn't  told  me," 
Nea  answered  simply.  "  And  whether  you  told  me  or  not, 
I,  at  least,  would  have  loved  you." 

Paul  took  her  little  hand  unreproved  in  his  own. 

"  I  was  mad,  though,"  he  said  ;  "  I  was  wicked  to  trouble 
you.  Nea,  I  won't  say  anything  about  the  difference  in  our 
positions,  or  anything  like  that,  for  I  know  you  are  good 
enough  and  true  enough  to  love  a  man  for  himself,  and  not 
for  his  wealth  or  what  else  be  can  give  you.  I  know,  poor 
as  I  am,  and  sprung  from  where  I  spring,  you'd  be  willing 
to  take  me.  But  I  oughtn't  to  have  spoken  to  you  at  all 
about  my  love.  I  ought  to  have  stifled  and  hidden  it  all 
from  you,  knowing,  as  I  do  now,  that  we  can  never  marry. 
It  was  cruel  of  me  so  to  cross  your  path,  so  to  wring  that 
confession  from  your  own  sweet  lips — only  to  tell  you  that 
I  can  never  marry  you." 

"You  didn't  wring  it  from  me,"  Nea  whispered  low. 
"  I  like  to  tell  you  so." 

"  O  Nea  !  "  cried  Paul,  and  pressed  her  hand  in  silence. 

"  Yes,  I  like  to  tell  you,"  she  repeated.  "  I  love  to  tell 
you.     I'm  glad  for  my  own  sake  you've  made  it  possible  fo? 


BREAKING    THE  ICE. 


i8i 


me  to  tell  you.  I  liked  you  very,  very  much  at  Mentone  ; 
and  every  day  I've  seen  you  since  I've  lik.ed  you  better,  and 
better,  and  better.  And  then,  I've  talked  so  much  about 
you  with  Faith.  Every  evening  she  and  I  have  done  noth- 
ing but  talk  about  you.  That  was  why  I  wanted  to  like 
Faith  so  much,  because — because  I  was  so  very  fond  of 
you.  But,  Paul,"  she  said  it  out  quite  naturally,  "  Paul, 
why  can't  you  marry  me  ? " 

Paul  began  in  some  vague,  shadowy,  indefinite  way  to 
tell  her  once  more  about  those  terrible  claims  that  so 
weighed  upon  his  conscience,  but  before  he'd  got  well 
through  the  very  first  sentence  Nea  said,  interrupting 
him  : 

"I  know,  I  know.  I  suppose  you  mean  about  Mr. 
Solomons." 

"  Has  Faith  told  you  all  about  Mr.  Solomons,  then  ? " 
Paul  exclaimed  in  surprise. 

"  Yes,"  Nea  answered.  "  Of  course  1  wanted  to  know  as 
much  as  I  could  about  you,  because  I  was  so  much  in- 
terested in  you,  and — and — I  loved  you  so  dearly  ;  and 
Faith  told  me  all  about  that,  and  it  made  me  so  very,  very 
sorry  for  you." 

"  T-ien,  if  you  know  all  that,"  Paul  cried,  "  you  must 
know  also  hov/  wrong  it  was  of  me  to  speak  to  you,  how 
impossible  for  me  ever  to  marry  you." 

Nea  looked  down  cit  the  fritillaries  in  her  hand,  and 
began  to  arrange  them  nervously  with  twitching  fingers. 
After  a  while  she  spoke. 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  she  said  in  a  very  calm  voice. 
**  Even  if  we  two  can  never,  never,  marry,  it's  better  I  should 
know  you  love  me,  and  you  should  know  I  love  you.  It's 
better  to  have  found  that  out,  even  though  nothing  more 
come  of  it,  than  to  go  through  life  blindly,  not  knowing 
whether  we  had  ever  won  one  another.     I  shall  go  back  to 


r.  !  I 


;..»*  ■  I 


l82 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


Cornwall,  oh,  ever  so  much  happier  than  I  went  away,  feel- 
ing certain  at  least  now  that  you  love  me,  Paul." 

The  young  man  leaped  forward.  His  lips  pursed  up  of 
themselves,  Nea didn't  shrink  away  from  him.  She  didn't 
tremble  or  withdraw.  She  allowed  him  to  kiss  her.  The 
kiss  thrilled  through  her  inmost  being. 

Paul  leaned  back  once  more,  all  penitence,  against  the 
bank. 

*'  What  have  I  done?  "  he  cried,  aghast  at  his  own  folly. 
*'  Let  us  rise  and  go,  Nea.  The  longer  we  stay  here,  the 
worse  and  worse  will  we  make  matters." 

"  No,"  Nea  answered  quietly.  ♦*  I  don't  want  to  go.  I 
like  sitting  here.  I  can't  let  you  go  yet.  We  must  under- 
stand better  how  we  stand  with  each  other.  You  mustn't 
go,  Paul,  till  you've  told  me  everything." 

Paul,  delighted  in  his  secret  heart  at  the  moment's  respite, 
began  once  more,  and  told  her  all  his  fears  and  doubts  for 
the  future — how  he  was  bound  hand  and  foot  to  Mr.  Solo- 
mons ;  how  he  must  spend  his  whole  life  in  trying  to  repay 
him  ;  and  what  folly  it  would  be  for  him  to  dream  of  marry, 
ing.  He  reproached  himself  bitterly  for  having  let  Nea  see 
into  the  secret  of  his  heart.  He  ought  never  to  have  told 
her — he  said,  he  ought  never  to  have  told  her. 

Nea  listened  to  him  out  to  the  very  end.  Then  she  fixed 
her  earnest  eyes  upon  him  and  answered  softly,  "  Paul,  I 
will  wait  for  you  if  I  wait  a  lifetime." 

"  It  isn't  a  case  for  waiting,"  Paul  cried,  "  it's  a  case  of 
despair  !  " 

"  Then  I  won't  despair,"  Nea  answered.  "  Not  even  to 
please  you.  I'll  be  happy  enough  in  knowing  you  love 
me. 

For  a  minute  or  two  more  they  talked  it  over  together  in 
gentle  whispers,  Nea  could  never  love  anyone  else,  she 
said  ;  so  what  did  it  matter  whether  they  could  marry  or 


co/\c/D/:xci:s. 


183 


not  ?  She  would  be  his,  at  any  rate,  for  she  could  never  be 
anybody  else's. 

"  And  when  I  go,  you'll  write  to  me,  Paul  ? "  she  added 
pleadingly. 

Paul  hesitated. 

"  I  mustn't,"  he  cried.  "  I  oughtn't  to,  Nea.  Remember, 
we  two  are  not  engaged  to  each  other." 

"  We're  more  than  engaged,"  Nea  answered  boldly,  with 
the  boldness  of  a  true  woman's  heart.  "  We're  each  other's 
alre^ly.  Paul,  I'll  write  to  you,  and  you  must  write  to  me. 
You  have  great  powers,  and  you'll  do  good  work  in  the 
world  yet.  In  time,  perhaps,  you'll  pay  off  all  this  weight 
of  debt  that  clings  like  a  millstone  round  your  neck  ;  and 
then  you'll  marry  me.  But,  if  not,  we'll  live  for  one  another 
forever.     And  I  shall  live  happy  if  I  know  you  love  me." 

*'  One  more  kiss,  Nea  !  " 

"  As  many  more  as  ever  you  like,  Paul." 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


COINCIDENCES. 


In  another  part  of  the  fields,  meanwhile,  Faith  Gascoyne 
and  Charlie  Thistleton  had  wandered  off  together  along  a 
backwater  of  the  river,  in  search  of  forget-me-nots,  they 
said,  and  white  waterlilies.  Oh,  those  innocent  flowers, 
how  much  they  have  to  answer  for  !  How  many  times 
have  they  not  been  made  the  excuse  for  such  casual  devia 
tions  from  the  straight  path  of  Britannic  chaperonage. 

Thistleton  had  helped  to  row  them  up  stream,  and  Faith 
thought  she  had  never  seen  him  look  so  handsome  as  he 
looked  just  then  in  his  bright  Christ  Church  boating  jacket, 
with  the  loose  flannel  shirt  showing  white  in  front  where 


!»l 


;3l 


184 


THE   SCALLYWAG, 


the  jacket  lay  open.  A  manly  man  seldom  looks  manlier 
than  in  boating  costume.  In  evening  clothes,  to  be  sure, 
as  she  had  seen  him  at  Kxeter  concert,  he  was  perhaps  as 
gentlemanly  ;  but  that  was  mere  gloss  and  outward  show  ; 
the  young  (Ircek  god  came  out  more  fully  in  the  garb  of 
athletics.  Faith  thought  with  a  sigh  that  to-morrow  her 
holiday  would  be  over  forever,  and  she  must  needs  go  back 
to  the  vacant  young  men  of  Ilillborough. 

They  sat  down  by  a  floodgate  on  a  tiny  side  stream,  and 
arranged  their  forget-me-nots  into  a  respectable  bundle. 
The  floodgate  had  a  sluice  door  in  it,  and  the  water  pouring 
through  made  murmuring  music.  'I'he  sky  was  just 
chequered  with  fleecy  clouds,  and  the  wind  whispered 
through  the  willows  on  the  margin.  It  was  all  a  sweet 
idyl  to  Faith's  full  young  heart ;  and  Mr.  Thistleton  by 
her  side  was  so  kind  and  attentive. 

She  knew  Mr.  'J'histleton  admired  her — in  a  way.  She 
couldn't  help  seeing,  as  she  sat  there  in  her  prettiest  morn- 
ing frock,  that  he  cast  eyes  of  delight  every  now  and  again 
at  her  rich  brown  complexion  and  her  uncommon  features. 
For  F'aith  Gascoyne  was  above  everything  uncommon-look- 
ing ;  a  certain  individual  stamp  of  distinction,  half  high- 
bred, half  gipsy-like,  was  the  greatest  charm  of  her  pecu- 
liarly cut  features.  And  Thistleton  gazed  at  her  with 
almost  rude  admiration — at  least.  Faith  would  almost  have 
thought  it  rude  if  it  hadn't  been  so  evidently  sincere  and 
simple  minded. 

Nevertheless,  when  Thistleton,  turning  round  abruptly, 
asked  her  point  blank  that  alarming  question,  "  Miss  Gas- 
coyne, do  you  think  you  could  ever  like  mc?"  Faith  was 
so  completely  taken  by  surprise  that  she  started  back  sud- 
denly, and  let  the  forget-me-nots  tumble  from  her  hands 
on  to  the  beam  of  the  floodgate. 

"Why,  of  course,  Mr.  Thistleton,"  she  answered,  with  a 


COrS^ClDEXCK^. 


185 


ids 


faint  smile,  •'  I  like  you — oh,  ever  so  much !     You're  so 
kind  and  good-natured." 

•'  But  that's  not  what  I  mean,"  the  blond  young  man 
corrected  hastily,  "  I  mean — well,  I'aith,  1  mean,  do  you 
think  you  could  ever  love  me  ?" 

If  ever  a  man  took  a  woman  by  storm  in  this  world  it 
was  surely  this  one  ! 

There  was  a  long  pause,  during  which  Faith  picked  up 
the  forget-me-nots  one  by  one,  and  arranged  them  together 
with  deliberate  care  into  a  neat  little  bouquet.  But  her 
heart  was  throbbing  fast  all  the  while  for  all  that. 

At  last,  she  looked  down  and  whispered  low,  while  the 
blond  young  man  waited  eagerly  for  her  answer,  *'  Mr. 
Thistleton,  you  ought  never  to  have  asked  me  that  ques- 
tion at  all.  Consider — consider  the  difference  in  our 
positions." 

Thistleton  looked  down,  a  little  bit  crestfallen. 

"Well,  I  know  it's  presumptuous  of  me,"  he  said  with  a 
shy  air,  just  emboldened  by  his  eagerness.  "  A  Sheffield 
cutler's  son  has  no  right  to  ask  a— a  lady  of  birth  and  rank 
to  be  his  wife,  offhand  ;  but  I  thought.  Miss  Gascoyne " 

Faith  cut  him  short  with  an  impatient  gesture.  Was 
this  mauvaise  cotn^die  of  her  father's  baronetcy  to  pursue 
her  like  an  evil  fate  though  life  even  in  these  its  supremest 
moments  ? 

"  I  didn't  mean  that"  she  cried,  leaning  eagerly  forward, 
and  looking  up  at  him  with  a  little  appealing  glance  for 
mercy.  "  Surely,  Mr.  Thistleton,  you  must  have  known 
yourself  I  didn't  mean  that.  But  you  are  so  much  richer 
and  better  brought  up  than  me,  and  you  move  in  such  a 
very  different  society.  I — I  should  be  ashamed  myself  of 
publicly  disgracing  you." 

Thistleton  glanced  across  at  her  with  a  curiously  doubt- 
ful, half  incredulous  air. 


in* 


>  ill 


1 86 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


"  Why,  how  much  at  cross-purposes  we  all  live !  "  he 
said,  with  a  little  awkward  laugh.  "  I've  been  wanting  all 
day  to  Lpeak  out  my  niiiul  to  you,  and  I've  been  afraid  all 
along,  for  1  thought  you'd  think  me  so  very  presuming. 
And  I'd  made  up  all  kinds  of  pretty  things  to  say  to  you, 
don't  you  know,  about  trying  to  live  up  to  your  level,  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing — because  you're  so  clever,  and  so 
brilliant,  and  so  much  above  me  in  every  way  ;  and  now, 
as  soon  as  ever  1  open  my  mouth,  you  knock  me  down  at 
once  with  a  regular  stunning  back-hander  like  that,  and  I 
don't  know  where  on  earth  to  begin  or  go  on  again.  I 
can't  one  bit  remeniber  what  1  meant  to  say  to  you.  I 
thought  if,  after  1  took  my  degree,  and  went  to  the  bar  in 
London — my  father  wants  me  to  go  to  the  bar,  just  as  a 
nominal  thing,  you  see,  because  it's  so  very  respectable  ; 
but,  of  course,  he'll  make  me  a  handsome  allowance  for  all 
expenses — I  thought,  if  I  lived  in  town,  and  kept  up  a  good 
establishment,  and  made  a  home  fit  for  you,  you  might 
perhaps  when  you  got  to  know  me  a  little  better,  think  me 
not  quite  altogether  beneath  you.  And,  to  tell  you  the 
truth.  Miss  Gascoyne,  to  make  security  doubly  sure,  I 
wrote  to  my  father  day  before  yesterday,  telling  him  every- 
thing about  your  brother  and  yourself;  and  saying  that  I 
thought  of  venturing  to  ask  you  to  marry  me,  and  I  got 
this  telegram  in  reply  from  my  people  last  night — you  can 
see  it  if  you  like  ;  it's  rather  long  of  it's  sort  ;  my  father's 
always  just  a  trifle  extravagant  in  the  matter  of  tele- 
graphing." 

Faith  bit  her  lip  as  she  took  the  telegram  from  the  blond 
young  nran  ;  the  whole  thing,  in  spite  of  her  agitation,  was 
so  supremely  ridiculous  !  *'  Your  mother  and  I  have  read 
your  letter  with  satisfaction  and  pleasure,"  the  telegram 
said,  "  and  are  delighted  to  see  you  think  of  looking  so 
high  in  that  matter.     We  are  gratified  at  the  choice  you 


COINCIDE  ACES. 


187 


have  made  of  companions.  And  now  in  another  more 
important  relation  :  it  would  be  a  very  proud  thing  for  us 
if  at  the  close  of  our  career,  which  has  been  long  and  pros- 
perous, we  could  see  our  dear  boy  the  brolher-in-law  of  a 
man  of  title.  You  may  be  sure  wc  would  do  everything  to 
make  you  both  happy.  Don't  delay  on  any  account  to  ask 
the  young  lady  as  soon  as  possible,  if  a  fitting  occasion  for 
doing  so  should  arise.  And,  if  she  accepts  you,  take  any 
credit  necessary  to  make  lu*r  a  suitable  present  of  whatever 
object  you  think  desirable.  Let  us  know  the  lady's  answer 
at  once  by  telegram." 

Faith  handed  it  back  to  him  with  a  burning  face.  Her 
hands  trembled.  "  It's  all  so  strange  to  me,"  she  mur- 
mured, bewildered. 

"At  any  rate,"  Thistleton  cried,  "your  objection's  an- 
swered beforehand,  you  see.  So  far  as  any  difference  in 
position  goes,  both  my  parents  and  I  looked  at  that  ques- 
tion exactly  opposite  from  the  way  you  look  at  it." 

"I  see,"  Faith  answered,  looking  down  all  fiery  rfed,  and 
with  her  soul  one  troubled  whirlwind  within  her. 

"Then  what  do  you  answer  me?"  Thistleton  asked, 
taking  her  hand  in  his.  "  Faith — may  I  call  you  Faith  ? — 
you  struck  me  so  dumb  by  taking  such  a  topsy-turvy  view 
of  our  relations,  that  I  hadn't  got  words  to  tell  you  what  I 
wanted.  But  I  love  you,  Faith,  and  I  want  you  to  marry 
me. 

Faith  let  her  hand  lie  unresistingly  in  his,  but  turned 
away  her  face,  still  hot  and  fiery.  "  You — you  are  very 
kind,  Mr.  Thistleton,"  she  answered. 

"But  that's  not  what  I  want,"  Thistleton  put  in,  leaning 
forward  once  more.  "  Faith,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  you're 
ready  to  marry  me." 

"  No,"  Faith  answered  resolutely,  "  1  can't.  Never, 
never,  never." 


I  ■  ^ : ' 


'"'*"  \ 


1 88 


TUE   SCALLVWAu. 


<< 


Why  ?"  'I'histletou  askctl,  dropping  |ur  hand  all  at 
once.  She  let  it  hang  idle  at  her  side  as  if  sorry  he  had 
dropped  it. 

**  Because — I  nuiNtii't,"  Kailh  answered,  all  a);lo\v. 

'•Don't  yon  like  nie  .' "  'I'liisileton  asked  with  a  very 
wistful  look.  "  U  Kailh.  I've  been  watching  you  ever 
since  you  came  to  Oxford,  and  I  really  bej;an  to  think  you 
did  like  nie.  just  a  little." 

"  1  like  you  very  much,"  l"aith  answered,  trembling.  *•  I 
never  was — so  flattered — at  anyihing  \\\  my  life  as  that — 
that  yon  should  think  me  worthy  to  tn;irryyou." 

"Oh,  don't  say  that  I  "  the  young  man  cried  in  a  voice  of 
genuine  distress.  '•  It  hurls  mc  to  hear  you  talk  like  that. 
It's  so  upside  down,  sonu'liow.  Why,  l-'aith,  1  lay  awake 
trembll'ig  all  last  night,  wondering  how  I  could  ever  ven- 
ture ''sk  you — you  who  are  so  beautiful,  and  good,  and 
clever.  I  was  afraid  to  speak  to  you.  Only  my  love  could 
have  emboldened  me  to  speak.  And  when  I  did  ask  you  at 
last,  I  blurted  it  out  point  blank  like  a  schoolboy,  because 
I  felt  you  so  much  above  me  that  I  hardly  dared  to  mention 
such  a  thing  in  your  presence." 

Faith  smiled  a  troubled  smile.  "  You're  very  good,"  she 
said.  •*  I  like  you  ever  so  much,  Mr.  Thistleton.  I  should 
like  to  sit  here  with  you — always." 

"Then  why  won't  you  marry  me?"  Thistleton  cried 
eagerly. 

Faith  pulled  about  the  forget-me-nots  ostentatiously  once 
more.  "  I  hardly  know  myself  yet,"  she  answered.  "  It's 
all  so  new.  It's  come  as  such  a  surprise  to  me.  I  haven't 
had  time  to  collect  my  thoughts.  I  only  know  in  a  dim  sort 
of  a  way  that  it's  quite,  quite  impossible." 

"  Don't  you  think  you  could  love  me  ?  "  Thistleton  asked 
very  low. 

Faith  looked  at  him  as  he  sat  there  in  his  manly  boating 


cor.vrrDE.vcES. 


ffio 


suit — so  much  more  of  a  man  iluiii  anybody  she  had  ever 
before  dreamt  of — and  then  she  lhou;;ht  of  the  infants.  ••  I 
could— like  you  a  great  deal,  I'm  sure,"  she  answered 
slowly.  "  It  isn't  that,  Mr.  I  histlelon.  It  isn't  that  at  all. 
If — if  I  yielded  to  my  own  heart,"  she  spoke  very  low, 
'*  perha[)s  I  iniijiit  say  to  you  )<fy  at  (juce " 

Before  she  could  finish  her  sentence  she  felt  an  arm 
placed  boldly  round  her  shapely  waist,  and  two  eager  lips 
pressed  hanl  against  hers.  She  rather  fancied  Mr.  Thistle- 
ton  was  kissing  her.  '•  If  you  say  as  much  as  that,"  the  blond 
young  man  cried  out  triumphantly,  "you. have  said  all.  I 
don't  mind  any  more  now.    Faith,  Faith,  you  belong  tome." 

Faith  struggled  to  be  free  so  hard  that  Thistleton  let  her 
go,  and  sat  looking  at  her  admiringly.  '*  Mr.  Thistleton," 
she  said  with  quiet  dignity,  "  you  must  never  do  that  again. 
I  like  you  very  much  ;  but  I  told  you  just  now  I  can  never 
marry  you." 

'*  And  I  asked  you  why,"  Thistleton  retorted  with  the 
audacity  begotten  of  love  ;  ••  and  you'd  no  good  reason  to 
give  me  ;  so  I  say,  on  the  contrary,  you'll  have  to  marry 
me." 

Faith  drew  a  long  breath  and  pulled  herself  together. 
The  reasons  why  it  was  impossible  came  clearer  to  her  now. 
They  dawned  slowly  on  her  mind.  She  leaned  back  and 
explained  them  one  by  one  to  Thistleton — her  father's  call- 
ing ;  the  family  poverty  ;  her  mother's  need  for  somebody 
to  help  her  ;  his  own  future  in  life  ;  the  impossibility  of 
keeping  in  two  societies  at  once  anywhere. 

But  Thistleton,  with  the  unsconscicnable  ardor  of  youth, 
would  listen  to  none  of  these  lame  excuses.  As  for  her 
father,  he  said,  he  was  a  British  baronet,  and  what  better 
father-in-law  any  member  of  a  north  country  business  house 
could  possibly  want  he  was  at  a  loss  to  discover.  As  to  the 
family  poverty,  that  was  all  the  more  reason  why  the  family 


It      ' 

1 ;'    ■ 

i  ■  ■  ! 

).**■  I 


IQO 


///A    SCAr.lYlVAi;. 


nhould  restore  itself  to  its  prt)pcr  position  by  marrying  into 
other  families  that  had  more  money  than  brains,  and  more 
land  than  ancestry.  When  i'aul  came  into  his  title — which 
he  hoped  wouldn't  be  for  ujany  years  yet — they'd  be  none 
the  prouder  than  they  were  of  him  now,  with  his  cleverness, 
and  his  industry,  and  his  fine  hi^h  character. 

"  Tiut  still,  you  know,"  he  s.iid,  cominj;  back  to  the  one 
undeniable  truth  of  lo^ic,  '*  a  baronet's  a  baronet." 

As  Faith  seemed  disinclined  to  dispute  that  self-evident 
specimen  of  an  identical  propo:>iiion,  'Ihistleton  went  on  to 
remark  that  Faith,  if  married,  could  do  a  j^reat  deal  more 
to  help  her  mother  than  in  school  with  the  infants  :  that  his 
own  future  womUI  be  all  the  more  assured  in  society's  eyes 
if  he  allied  him.self  to  a  member  of  a  titled  family  ;  and 
that,  as  his  father  .vanted  him  to  go  into  Parliament  finally, 
he  wished  to  have  a  wife  who  would  be  a  credit  and  an  aid 
to  him  in  that  arduous  position.  Finally,  when  Faith 
urged  the  difficulty  of  mixing  in  two  societies  at  once, 
Thistleton  looked  her  back  very  gravely  in  the  face,  and 
remarked  with  a  solemnity  that  fairly  made  her  laugh  : 

•'And  the  governor,  you  know,  doesn't  always  get  his 
tongue  quite  straight  round  his  most  slippery  h's.  Yet  he 
might  have  been  in  Parliament  more  than  once  if  he  had 
liked.  Why,  the  floor  of  the  House  is  literally  strewn 
nowadays,  they  say,  with  the  members'  aspirates." 

They  sat  there  I  :ig,  debating  and  fencing,  Faith  confi- 
dent that  the  idea  was  wholly  impracticable,  and  Thistleton 
determined  that  Faith  should  say  yes  to  him.  But,  at  last, 
when  time  had  gone  too  far,  they  rose  and  Thistleton  fired 
fine  parting  shot  before  rejoining  Mrs.  Douglas  at  the  shore 
by  the  row  boats.  *'  At  least,"  he  said,  "  I  suppose  I  may 
write  to  you  ?  " 

Faith  hesitated  for  a  moment.  She  couldn't  forego  that 
innocent  pleasure.     "  Well,  yes,"  she  said  falteringly,  "you 


co/X(  int-j^CEs. 


191 


may  write  to  me  if  yoii  like.  A«  Mr.  Solomons  says,  •  with- 
out prpjiiclice,'  you  may  write  to  nii*." 

The  blond  young  nian  smiled  triuinplianl.  ••  Well,  that 
settles  it,"  he  exclaimed  with  delight.  "  I  shall  telegraph 
back  this  evening  to  'he  governor." 

♦•  And  what'll  you  say  ?  "  Kaith  asked,  not  wholly  dis- 
pleased. 

"The  lady  accepts,  but  defers  for  the  present,"  Thistleton 
answered  boldly. 

••  But  I  don't  accept,"  Faith  cri-^d.  '•  Oh,  you  mustn't  say 
that,  Mr.  Thistleton.  Mr.  Ihistleton,  I  distinctly  said  no  to 
you." 

The  professor  came  upon  them  before  Thistleton  could 
reply.  "  My  dear  young  truants,"  he  said,  beaming  hard 
on  Faith  through  his  benevolent  pince-nez,  ••  where  on  earth 
have  you  been  hiding  yourselves  ?  I  cf)me  as  ambassador 
from  the  court  of  Mrs.  Grundy.  My  wife  has  been  look- 
ing for  you  any  time  this  half-hour." 


As  they  rowed  home  that  evening  down  the  calm  blue 
stream,  everybody  noticed  that  Isabel  Boyton,  who  was 
one  of  the  guests,  had  lost  her  irrepressible  good  spirits 
for  once,  and  seemed  tired  and  moody.  She  sat  silent  in 
the  stern,  with  her  arms  around  Nea  Blair's  waist,  and 
hardly  even  flashed  out  a  saucy  retort  when  the  professor 
chaffed  her  upon  her  unexpected  taciturnity. 

But  when  she  reached  her  rooms  at  the  Mitre,  in  the 
dusk,  that  night,  she  flung  her  arms  wildly  about  her  mother's 
neck,  and  cried  out  aloud,  "  Oh,  momma,  momma,  do  you 
know  what's  happened  ?  He  proposed  to  Nea  Blair  to-day 
— and  she's  accepted  him  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  know,  darling  ? "  her  mother  asked, 
soothing  her. 

"  \  could  see  it,"   Isabel  cried.     '•  I'm  sure  of  it !     I 


fit 


1 

k 


193 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


know  it !  And  oh,  momma,  it  was  the  title  and  the  fun  of 
the  thing  I  thought  of  at  first  ;  no  more  than  that ;  but,  in 
the  end,  it  was  himself.     I  love  him  !     I  love  him  !" 

Your  American  girl  is  the  coquette  pushed  to  its  utmost 
limit.  Who  wants  her,  may  go  ;  but  who  shows  himself 
indifferent  to  her  charms  and  dollars  she  would  die  to  win 
him. 

That  night,  when  Thistleton  met  Faith  at  the  Christ 
Church  concert,  he  slipped  a  little  packet  unobstrusively 
into  her  hand.  Faith  would  have  returned  it,  but  she 
couldn't  without  attracting  attention.  She  opened  it  in  her 
own  room,  after  Nea  had  left  her — Nea  who  had  come 
with  kisses  and  tears  to  bid  her  good-night,  but  not  to  tell 
her  about  her  episode  with  Paul.  It  contained  a  short  note 
— a  veiy  short  note — and  a  tiny  jeweler's  case.  The  note 
said  : 


"  Mv  Darling  Faith  :  I  was  always  a  dutiful  and  obe- 
dient son,  and  I've  felt  compelled  to-night  to  obey  my  father's 
instructions.  He  said  I  was  to  buy  you  a  suitable  present, 
and  I  send  it  herewith.  I  might  have  chosep  a  diamond  or 
something  of  the  sort,  but  then  I  know  you  wouldn't  have 
worn  it.  This  little  ring  will  be  more  really  serviceable. 
Your  own  grateful  and  devoted,  C.  H.  T. 

*'P.  S. — Enclosed  telegram  just  arrived  from  Sheffield." 

Faith  looked  at  t'e  ring.  It  was  simple  and  pretty 
enough  ;  but  what  she  liked  best  was  his  thoughtfulness  in 
sending  her  those  five  small  pearls  instead  of  anything  more 
showy  and  therefore  more  unsuitable.  Then  she  turned  to 
the  telegram  : 

"  We  congratulate  you  warmly.  We  are  pleased  and 
proud.     Please  send  a  photograph." 


AfISS  BOYTOX   PLAYS  A    CARD 


»93 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


MISS  BOYTON    PLAYS    A  CARD. 


Next  morning,  as  Nea  was  busy  racking,  Faith  burst 
unexpectedly  into  her  room  with  a  sudden  impulse.  To  say 
the  truth,  girl  that  she  was,  she  couldn't  resist  the  tempta- 
tion of  showing  Nea  her  ring,  though  she  said  nothing  as 
yet  about  the  note  that  accompanied  it.  Nea  admired  it 
with  a  placid  sigh.  It  would  be  long  before  Paul  could 
give  her  such  a  ring.  Not  that  she  wanted  one,  of  course  ; 
nobody  was  less  likely  to  think  that  than  Nea  ;  but  then, 
poor  Paul  must  feel  the  difference  so  keenly  ! 

She  folded  up  the  dress  that  lay  stretched  on  the  bed, 
and  laid  it  neatly  into  her  small  portmanteau.  Faith 
glanced  at  it  all  at  once  with  a  sharp  glance  of  surprise. 

"  Why,  Nea,"  she  cried,  taking  it  out  once  more  and  hold- 
ing it  in  her  hand,  *'  whatever  do  you  call  this,  you  bad, 
bad  creature  ?" 

Nea  blushed  a  guilty  blush  of  conscious  shame.  She 
was  caught  in  the  act — fairly  found  out.  It  was  an  even- 
ing-dress she  had  never  worn  all  the  time  she  was  at 
Oxford. 

Faith  looked  down  into  the  portmanteau  once  more,  and 
there  in  its  depths  caught  a  passing  glimpse  of  yet  another 
one. 

"Oh,  Nea,"  she  cried,  half-tearfal  with  vexation,  taking 
it  out  in  turn,  "  this  is  really  too  wicked  of  you.  You  had 
these  two  nice  evening-gowns  here  all  the  time,  and  you've 
only  worn  the  old  cashmere  ever  since  you've  been  here  on 
purpose  not  to  be  better  dressed  than  I  was  !  " 

Nea  gazed  at  these  two  mute  witnesses  to  her  guilt  with 
an  uncomfortable  glance.      Her   tender  little  conscience 


#►' 


•('.;••' 


."^•n 


194 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


would  have  smitten  her  greatly  had  she  allowed  that  simple 
explanation  of  Faith's  to  pass  unqualified. 

"  It  wasn't  altogether  that,"  she  answered,  fixing  her 
eyes  on  the  carpet.  **  It  was  partly  on  your  account,  P'aith. 
I  don't  deny,  that  I  wouldn't  wear  them  ;  but  partly,  also" 
— she  hesitated  for  a  second — "to  tell  you  the  truth,  1 
didn't  want — your  brother  to  think  1  was — well — so  very 
much  more  expensively  dressed  than  you  were." 

She  said  it  so  simply  that  Faith  guessed  the  rest,  and 
made  no  answer,  save  to  fling  her  arms  round  Nea's  neck 
and  kiss  her  passionately.  For  now  she  felt  they  were 
almost  sisters. 

They  drove  to  the  station  together,  and  went  up — both 
third — in  the  same  train  to  Paddington.  There  they  parted, 
Nea  to  Cornwall,  Faith  to  Waterloo,  for  Hillborough  and 
the  infants. 

Her  dream  was  over.  She  must  go  back  now  to  the 
workaday  world  again. 

But  always  with  that  ring  and  note  in  her  pocket.  For 
she  dared  not  wear  the  ring  ;  that  would  attract  attention. 
Still,  what  a  difference  it  made  to  her  life  !  It  would 
sweeten  the  days  with  the  infants  to  feel  it  furtively  from 
time  to  time.  It  would  bring  the  dream  back  to  her,  and 
she  would  work  the  more  easily. 

Thistleton  and  Paul  had  come  down  to  see  them  off  at 
the  station,  and  with  them  Mis  Boyton  and  her  inseparable 
momma.  Poor  Isabel  couldn't  deny  herself  the  pleasure  of 
watching  her  victorious  rival  safe  out  of  Oxford,  and  wav- 
ing her  a  farewell  from  Paul's  side  of  the  platform.  Not 
out  of  any  Ill-will  or  unkindness — of  that  Isabel  was  wholly 
incapable — but  simply  as  a  sort  of  salve  to  her  own  feelings. 
Nea  had  engaged  Paul's  heart,  and  Isabel  accepted  her 
defeat  with  good  grace.  Not  only  did  she  bear  Nea  no 
grudge  for  having  thus  wholly  ousted  her,  but  she  kissed 


MISS   BOYTO\'   PLAYS   .1    CARD. 


'95 


her  a  kiss  of  exceptional  tenderness,  and  pressed  her  hand 
with  a  friendly  pressure  as  she  entered  the  carriage,  Nea 
knew  what  the  kiss  and  pressure  meant.  Among  women 
words  are  very  seldom  necessary  to  pass  these  little  confi- 
dences from  one  to  the  other. 

From  the  station  Isabel  walked  back  to  the  Mitre  with 
Thistleton,  allowing  her  momma  to  take  possession  of  Paul. 
She  had  reasons  of  her  own  for  this  peculiar  arrangement. 
She  wanted,  in  fact,  to  apply  once  more  that  familiar 
engine,  the  common  pump,  to  Thistleton.  .And  the  blond 
young  man,  being  by  nature  a  frank  and  confiding  person- 
age, was  peculiarly  su.sceptibleto  the  pumping  operation. 

When  they  reached  the  Mitre,  Isabel  deposited  the  obed- 
ient momma  in  her  own  room. 

'•  I'm  going  a  turn  round  the  Meadow  with  Mr.  Thistle- 
ton," she  said  abuptly. 

"You've  a  lecture  at  twelve,  Thistleton,  haven't  you  .' " 
Paul  asked,  anxious  to  spare  his  friend  Miss  Boyton's 
society  if  he  didn't  want  it. 

"  Oh,  I'll  cut  the  lecture,"  Thistleton  answered  good- 
humoredly.  **  It's  Aristotle's  Ethics  ;  and  I  daresay  Aris- 
totle don't  mind  being  cut.  He  must  be  used  to  it  now 
after  so  many  centuries.  Besides,  a  just  mean  between 
excessive  zeal  and  undue  negligence  was  his  own  ideal,  you 
know.  He  should  be  flattered  by  my  conscientious  carrying 
out  of  his  principles.  I  haven't  missed  a  lecture  for  a 
whole  week  now.  I  think  it's  about  time  I  should  begin  to 
miss  one." 

For,  in  fact,  the  blond  young  man  vaguely  suspected, 
from  what  Isabel  had  told  him  on  her  way  from  the  station, 
she  hoped  to  benefit  the  Gascoyne  family,  and  taking  now 
a  profound  interest  in  all  that  concerned  that  distinguished 
house,  of  which,  in  spite  of  Faith's  disclaimer,  he  almost 
considered  himself  at  present  a  potential  member,  he  was 


V> 


W 


k 


\  i 


'!  \i 


196 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


% 


anxious  to  learn  what  her  scheme  might  be,  and  to  see  how 
far  it  might  be  expected  to  lighten  the  burden  of  the  family 
difficulties.  Isabel,  however,  was  too  thoroughbred  an 
American  to  let  Thistleton  see  too  much  of  her  own  inten- 
tions. She  led  him  dexterously  to  the  round  seat  in  Christ 
Church  Meadows  that  overlooks  the  Cherwell,  and,  seating 
him  there  at  close  quarters,  proceeded  to  work  the  pump- 
handle  with  equal  skill  and  vigor.  She  succeeded  so  well 
that  even  Armitage  himself,  the  past  master  in  the  art  of 
applied  hydrostatics,  could  hardly  have  surpassed  her.  At 
the  end  of  an  hour  she  had  got  out  of  Thistleton  almost 
all  he  knew  about  the  strange  compact  between  the  Gas- 
coynes  and  Mr.  Solomons.  Motives  of  delicacy,  indeed, 
restrained  the  blond  young  man  from  mentioning  the 
nature  of  the  security  on  which  Mr.  Solomons  reposed  his 
hopes  of  ultimate  repayment — Paul's  chance  of  marrying 
an  heiress.  He  thought  such  a  disclosure  might  sound  a 
trifle  personal,  for  the  name  and  fame  of  Isabel's  prospec- 
tive dollars  had  been  noised  abroad  far  and  wide  both  in 
Mentone  and  in  Oxford.  Nor  did  he  allude  in  passing  to 
his  own  possible  future  relations  with  the  heir-apparent  to 
the  baronetcy  and  his  handsome  sister.  Other  personal 
motives  tied  his  tongue  there  ;  while  as  to  the  state  of 
affairs  between  Nea  and  Paul  he  knew  or  guessed  far  less 
than  Isabel  herself  did.  But  with  these  few  trifling  excep- 
tions, he  allowed  the  golden-haired  Pennsylvanian  to  suck 
his  brains  of  all  his  private  acquaintance  with  the  Gascoyne 
affairs,  being  thoroughly  convinced,  like  an  innocent,  good 
young  man  that  he  was,  that  Isabel  could  desire  this  useful 
knowledge  for  no  other  purpose  than  to  further  the  designs 
of  the  Gascoyne  family.  If  Mme.  Ceriolo  had  got  hold 
of  a  young  man  like  Thistleton,  she  might  have  twisted  him 
round  her  little  finger;  and  used  his  information  to  very  bad 
account ;  fortunately  the  American  heiress  had  no  plans  in 


M/SS  HOY  TON  Pl.AYS  A    CARD. 


197 


her  head  but  such  as  deserved  the  unsuspirious  undergrad- 
uate's most  perfect  confidence. 

When  Isabel  had  sucked  lier  oraiiJLje  (juite  dry,  she  rose 
at  hist,  and,  remarking  in  the  cheerful  American  tone  of 
virginal  discovery,  "  It  must  be  getting  on  for  one  :  I  feel 
like  lunching,"  led  the  way  back  direct  to  the  city. 

As  soon  as  she  found  herself  in  her  own  room  at  the 
Mitre,  however,  she  took  out  a  small  Russia  leather  note- 
book from  her  pocket  and  entered  in  it  with  a  neat  gold 
pencil-case,  and  not  without  some  rising  tears,  three  short 
memoranda  :  "  Judah  Solomons,  High  Street,  llillborough, 
Surrey.  Faith  Gascoyne,  5  Plovvden's  Court.  Drexel, 
Morgan  &  Co.,  bankers,  Paris," 

Then  she  dried  her  eyes  with  a  clean  white  handkerchief, 
humjned  a  cheerful  tune  for  a  moment  or  two  to  herself  to 
restore  her  spirits,  and  having  satisfied  herself  in  the  glass 
that  all  traces  of  recent  weeping  had  disappeared,  descended, 
smiling,  to  her  momma  in  the  coffee-room, 

"  On  Toosday,"  she  said  to  her  mother  with  an  ab- 
stracted air,  as  they  sat  down  to  a  lunch  of  transatlantic 
splendor,  "  I  shall  go  back  to  London,  Appears  to  me  as 
if  I'd  had  about  enough  now  of  these  Oxford  colleges. 
There's  too  many  of  'em  at  once.  They  run  into  the  mo- 
notonous," 

"  Very  well,  Izzy,"  her  mother  responded  dutifully. 

And  Tuesday  morning,  in  real  earnest,  they  were  back 
again  once  more,  with  all  their  boxes,  at  Hatchett's  Hotel 
in  Piccadilly, 

That  afternoon  as  Isabel,  somewhat  disconsolate,  strolled 
along  Bond  Street,  she  saw  a  familiar  figure  steering  its 
way  toward  her  loungily  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street. 
The  figure  was  attired  in  a  faultless  frock  coat  and  a  shiny 
tall  hat,  and  was  booted,  gloved,  and  cuffed  to  match  with 
irreproachable  exactitude.     As  a    faint  smile    began  to 


^ 


;•   \ ' 


198 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


H'i 


J- 


develop  itself  by  premonition  on  Isabel's  countenance  the 
figure  displayed  some  momentary  symptoms  of  i;ascent 
hesitation,  not  unmixed  with  an  evident  tendency  to  turn 
away,  without  the  appearance  of  observing  her,  into  Bur- 
lington Gardens.  Miss  Boyton  might  be  very  good  fun  on 
the  Promenade  du  Midi,  but  was  she  quite  the  right  sort 
of  person  to  acknowledge  on  Bond  Street  ?  The  authority 
on  the  meaning  of  the  word  scallywag  had  his  doubts  on 
the  subject. 

Before  he  could  carry  his  hesitancy  into  effect,  however, 
Isabel  had  darted  promptly  across  the  s.reet  with  American 
irrepressibility,  and  was  shaking  the  limp  gloved  hand 
with  good-humored  fervor. 

"  Oh,  my  !  Mr.  Armitage,"  she  said, "  how  funny  I  should 
meet  you — you  of  all  people  in  the  world,  right  here  in 
London  ! " 

Armitage  drew  himself  up  with  stiff  politeness. 

"  One  usually  does  expect  to  meet  one's  friends  in  Bond 
Street,"  he  retorted  with  dignity.  "  And,  indeed,  I  was 
here  this  very  afternoon  on  the  lookout  for  another  old 
Mentone  acquintance  whom  I  often  meet  about  these  parts. 
I  mean  Mme.  Ceriolo." 

"  Oh,  she's  in  London,  is  she  ? "  Isabel  asked  with  languid 
interest. 

"  Well,  yes,  she's  in  London,"  Armitage  answered  cau- 
tiously. **  Where,  I  don't  know  ;  perhaps  it  would  be 
wisest  not  to  inquiretoo  deep.  Mme.  Ceriolo's  move- 
ments should  be  judged,  I  take  it,  with  tolerant  leniency. 
But  she  amuses  me,  you  know — she  undoubtedly  amuses 
me."  He  spoke  with  a  marked  apologetic  tone,  as  one  who 
feels  half  ashamed  of  his  own  undeveloped  taste.  "  I  like 
to  meet  her  and  have  a  little  chat  with  her  now  and  again. 
She  gives  me  a  fillip.  After  all,  one  can  forgive  much  to  a 
person  who  amuses  you." 


M/SS  BOYTOX  PLAYS  W    CARD. 


>99 


"I  guess  that's  about  what  we  all  want  out  of  one 
another  in  this  vale  of  tears,"  Isabel  answered  frankly. 

••The  philosophy  of  life  in  a  nutshell,"  Armitage  retorted 
reassured.  "  And  really,  in  her  way,  the  little  woman's  quite 
presentable." 

••  Oh,  quite  presentable,"  Isabel  answered,  smiling. 

"So  why  shouldn't  one  know  her?"  Armitage  went  on 
with  the  timid  air  of  a  man  who  desires  to  be  backed  up  in 
a  heretical  opinion.  '•  I  mean  to  find  her  out  and  look  her 
up,  I  think.  And  you,  Miss  Boyton,  what  have  you  been 
doing  with  yourself  since  you  left  Mentoire." 

The  devil  eutered  into  Isabel  Boyton  (as  he  frequently 
does  into  her  saucy  fellow-countrywomen)  and  prompted 
her  to  respond  with  incisiveness. 

••  I've  been  up  to  Oxford,  to  see  the  scallywag." 

•*  No  ?"  Armitage  cried  with  a  look  of  profound  interest. 
"  And  tell  mc,  Miss  Boyton,  what  did  you  see  or  hear 
there?" 

Isabel  took  a  cruel  revenge  for  his  desire  to  avoid  her. 

••I  saw  Nea  Blair,"  she  said,  "  who  was  stopping  at  a 
house  in  Oxford  with  Faith  Gascoyne,  the  scallywag's 
sister ;  and  we  went  out  a  great  deal  together,  and  saw  Mr. 
Gascoyne  and  Mr.  Thistleton,  and  a  great  many  more. 
And  no  end  of  engagements  and  things  have  happened  ; 
and  there's  lots  of  news  ;  but  I'm  so  sorry  I'm  busy.  I 
must  call  a  hack  !  " 

And,  quick  as  thought,  she  hailed  a  hansom,  and  left  the 
poor  scandalmonger  lifting  his  hat,  alone,  on  the  pavement, 
tantalized. 

It  was  a  cruel  revenge,  but  perhaps  he  deserved  it. 

Armitage  would  have  given  five  pounds  that  moment  to 
know  all  about  these  rumored  engagements. 

Had  that  fellow  Gascoyne  succeeded  in  bagging  the 
American  heiress  who  was  so  sweet  upon  him  at  Mentone  ? 


I 


i    ■! 


ioo 


THE    SVALI.yVVAG. 


And  had  Thistleton  fallen  a  victim  to  the  seeming  inno- 
cence of  Nea  Rlair?  He  rather  suspected  it.  These  inno- 
cent bread-and-butter  misses  often  know  at  any  rate  on 
which  side  their  bread's  l)uttered.  So,  twenty  minutes 
later,  Armitagc  was  expounding  both  apocryphal  engage- 
ments to  little  Mnie.  Ceriolo,  whom  he  happened  to  run 
up  against,  quite  by  accident,  of  course,  near  the  corner 
of  Piccadilly.  And  little  Mme.  Ceriolo,  smiling  her  most 
winning  smile,  remarked  confidentially  that  it's  often  the 
women  of  the  world,  whom  everybody  suspects,  that  have 
after  all  the  most  profound  and  disinterested  affections. 
As  she  said  so,  she  looked  most  meaningly  at  Armitage. 


i;  ! 


CHAPTER  XXni. 


AN    UNEXPECTED    VISITOR. 


•*  Momma,"  Miss  Isabel  Boyton  remarked  at  breakfast 
on  Wednesday  morning,  balancing  a  fragment  of  sole  or. 
the  end  of  her  fork,  as  she  glanced  up  sideways,  '*  you 
needn't  worry  to  expect  me  to  lunch  to-day,  I'm  going 
out  by  myself,  and  I  mayn't  be  back  till  somewhere  near 
dinner-time.  If  you  happen  to  be  loafing  around  anywhere 
about  Bond  Street,  I  daresay  you'll  pick  up  Mr.  Armitage  ; 
he's  there  most  all  the  time — afternoons,  he  says.  But,  if 
you  don't,  I  guess  you  can  drop  in  and  look  at  the  National 
Gallery,  or  something  instructive  and  entertaining,  most  as 
well  without  me." 

Mrs.  Boyton  helped  herself  to  a  third  poached  ^%%  and 
some  more  broiled  ham — she  had  the  usual  surprising 
appetite  of  the  sallow  American  dyspeptic — as  she  answered 
meekly : 

•♦  Yes,  indeed,  Izzy.    I've  got  to  mail  my  letters  to  your 


/tX   UXEXPECTED    VISITOR, 


301 


poppa  this  murning,  and  after  lunch  I'll  fix  myself  up  and 
sit  out  in  the  Park  a  bit." 

Miss  Isabel  went  up  to  her  own  room  and  consulted 
"  Firadshaw."  The  high  mathematical  training  she  had 
received  at  the  Ilarrisbiirg  Lyceum  enabled  her  in  less 
than  half  an  hour  to  arrive  at  the  abstruse  fact  that 
a  train  for  Hillborough  left  Victoria  Station  at  11.05, 
and  that  a  return  train  might  be  expected  at  3.17  or  at 
4.30,  Armed  with  these  data,  and  with  the  consciousness 
of  virtue,  she  summoned  a  hansom — it  was  one  of  the 
chief  joys  of  London,  in  Isabel  HoytonV  eyes,  to  "  ride  a 
hansom  "  from  place  to  place — and  commanded  her  driver 
to  take  her  *•  right  away  "  to  Victoria. 

Arrived  at  the  station  which  bore  that  regal  and  imperial 
name  (Isabel  did  just  love  these  faint  echoes  of  royalty, 
resonant  through  the  length  and  breadth  of  modern  Eng- 
land) she  went  into  the  telegraph  office  and  framed  a  hasty 
cablegram,  in  the  imperative  mood,  addressed  to  Sylvanus 
P.  Boyton,  Philadelphia,  Pa. — which  last  mysterious  addi- 
tion had  reference,  not  to  Mr.  Boyton's  respected  parental 
relation  toward  herself,  but  to  his  local  habitation  in  the 
State  of  Pennsylvania.  The  message  itself  was  pithy  and 
to  the  point : 

"  Open  me  a  credit  for  three  thousand  pounds  sterling  at 
once  at  Drexel  &  Morgan's,  Paris. 

"  Isabel  Boyton." 

•"Honor  your  father  and  mother's'  gone  out  of  date," 
Mr.  Sylvanus  Boyton  remarked,  in  his  counting-house  at 
Philadelphia,  when  he  received  that  cablegram  four  hours 
earlier  (by  American  time),  and  '  Honor  your  sons'  and 
daughters'  checks  '  has  come  in  instead  of  it !  "  But  he 
understood  his  duty  in  his  own  generation  for  all  that,  for 
he  telegraphed  without  delay: 


i:^ 


^ 


>■<■  ! 


I 


ioa 


THE  acAijywAG. 


•'  Have  advised  Drexel,  Morgan,  according  to  wish.  You 
seem  to  be  going  it," 

And  going  it  Miss  Isabel  undoubtedly  was,  in  her  own 
unconventional  American  fashion. 

At  Hillhorough  Station  she  found  but  a  single  cab  in 
attendance.  This  she  hailed  at  once,  and  (observed  in  a 
conlidenlial  tone  to  the  driver,  •'  I  want  yon  to  drive  me  to 
Mr.  Solomons,  auctioneer  and  estate  ajjent,  somewhere  in 
the  High  Street  ;  but  please,  in  going,  don't  pass  a  place 
called  Plowden's  Court,  if  you  can  possibly  help  it,  and 
'•cn'l  go  near  the  school  where  Miss  Gascoyne  teaches.  1 
don't  want  her  to  know  I've  come  to  Ilillborough." 

'I'he  driver  sniiled  a  curiously  knowing  smile  ;  and  his 
right  eye  was  with  difficulty  prevented  from  winking,  but  he 
was  a  discreet  man,  as  is  the  wont  of  cabmen — those  invol- 
untary depositories  of  so  many  other  folks'  secrets — so  he 
answered  merely,  "All  right,  Miss;  I  understand!"  with 
an  air  as  confidential  as  Isabel's  own,  atui  drove  her  forth- 
with to  the  dingy,  stingy  little  stuccoed  house  in  the  old- 
fashioned  High  Street,  without  further  comment. 

Mr.  Solomons  was  in  somewhat  low  spirits  that  morning. 
Things  generally  had  been  using  him  very  hard.  A  debtor 
against  whom  he  had  obtained  a  judgment  summons  had 
"  sold  up "  so  ill  that  barely  enough  remained,  after 
expenses  paid,  to  cover  the  principal  of  Mr.  Solomons' 
debt,  let  alone  the  interest.  Great  Occidental  Shares  which 
he  held  for  a  rise,  had  fallen  yesterday  five-eights  to  three- 
quarters.  His  nephew  Lionel,  whom  he  supplied  so  liber- 
ally, had  written  again  to  ask  for  more.  And,  to  crown  all, 
sitting  clumsily  down  himself  with  all  his  weight  of  care,  he 
had  broken  an  office  stool,  value  three  and  a  penny,  which 
would  have  to  be  replaced  by  a  fresh  article  from  the  car- 
penter's.   These  accumulated  misfortunes  told  heavily  upon 


/IX    6'/VA,\7'Ar/A/^    nS//VA' 


ioi 


M 


:h 


r 


I, 
le 


in 


Mr.  Solomons.  Ife  was  distinctly  out  of  sorts,  and  he 
would  have  bren  glad  of  an  excuse  to  vent  his  ill  humor,  if 
occasion  turned  up,  upon  sonic  lUtiu};  object. 

Nevertheless,  when  he  saw  a  pretty  younjr  lady  with 
golden  hair — slim,  too  slim  f«)r  Mr.  .Solomon's  ( )ricntal  taste, 
but  still  distinctly  j^ood-lookinj;,  and  dressed  with  the 
nameless  incommiuncable  charni  of  American  |)lutocracy — 
descend  at  his  own  tloor  and  enter  his  office,  doubtless  on 
business  thoughts  intent,  professional  spirit  rose  so  tri- 
umphant in  Mr.  Solomons'  breast  that  he  advanced  to  meet 
the  pretty  young  lady,  smiling  a  snnle'of  ten  house-and- 
estate-agent  power  of  persuasion.  He  saw  in  her,  with  the 
eye  of  faith,  that  valuable  acquisition  to  the  professional 
man,  a  new  client.  The  new  client  was  probably  come  to 
inquire  for  a  furnished  villa  at  Hillborough  for  the  summer 
season.  Mr.  Solomons  had  always  many  such  inquiries  in 
July  and  August. 

The  young  lady,  however,  declined  the  suggestion  of 
wanting  a  house.  She  was  in  a  hurry,  she  said — in  a  very 
great  hurry — might  she  speak  with  Mr.  Solomons  half  an 
hour — alone — on  strictly  private  business. 

Mr.  Solomons  rose  and  led  the  way  upstairs  with  a  beat- 
ing heart.  Sixty  years  of  resolute  bachelorhood  had  made 
him  wary.  Could  the  lady's  little  game  by  any  possibility 
be  breach  of  promise  ?  He  trembled  at  the  idea.  If  only 
Leo  were  here  now  to  listen  unobtrusively  and  act  as 
witness  through  the  medium  of  the  key-hole  !  But  to  face 
her  alone,  unsupported  even  by  the  office  boy's  evidence — 
the  bare  notion  of  such  damages  as  the  Court  might  award 
was  really  too  appalling. 

The  young  lady,  however,  soon  set  his  doubts  on  that 
score  at  rest.  She  went  straight  to  the  point  with  trans- 
atlantic directness.  Mr.  Solomons  had  certain  bonds,  notes, 
or  acceptances  of  Mr.  Paul  Gascoyne's  of  Christ  Church, 


-U^l 


r» 


304 


riih    SCAII.VWAC. 


Oxford.  How  much  were  they  for?  And  what  would 
Mr.  Soh)mons  take  in  a  lump  for  ihcin  ' 

At  this  astoutuling  propusiiion,  incd  off  at  his  head 
poii\ll)hink,  without  explanation  or  introduction,  witliout 
even  u  knowledge  of  the  young  woman's  name — Mr.  Solo- 
mons* breath  came  and  went  painfully,  and  a  curious  con- 
flict of  doubt  and  hope  took  possession  of  his  bosom.  He 
was  a  business  man,  and  he  must  know  more  about  this 
offer  before  he  even  admitted  the  existence  of  the  bonds. 
Who  knew  but  that  the  strange  young  lady  wanted  to 
rob  and  murder  him  ! 

So  Mr.  Solomons  temporized.  By  long  and  slow  degrees 
he  drew  out  of  Isabel  the  various  facts  that  she  was  a  rich 
American  ;  that  she  had  met  Paul  Gascoyne  at  Mentone 
and  Oxford  ;  that  she  wished  to  get  the  bonds  into  her 
own  hands  ;  and  that,  apparently,  ;die  was  well-disposed 
toward  the  parties  of  the  first  part  in  those  valuable  docu- 
ments. On  the  other  hand,  he  gathered,  by  various  sug- 
gestive side-hints,  that  the  young  lady  was  not  aware  of 
the  precise  position  of  Paul's  father,  beyond  the  fact  that 
he  was  a  baronet  of  the  United  Kingdom  in  very  small  cir- 
cumstances  ;  and,  further,  that  she  had  no  sort  of  authority 
from  Paul  himself  to  make  any  offer  whatsoever  for  the 
documents  in  question.  She  was  prepared  to  buy  them, 
she  said,  for  their  fair  money  value  in  prompt  cash,  and 
she  would  engage  to  cause  the  parlies  of  the  first  part  no 
unnecessary  trouble  in  the  matter  of  repayment. 

Mr.  Solomons*  heart,  like  the  Homeric  hero's,  was  di- 
vided two  ways  within  him  at  this  singular  application. 
He  had  never  concealed  from  himself,  and  his  nephew 
Lionel  had  certainly  not  concealed  from  him,  the  painful 
fact  that  these  bonds  were  a  very  doubtful  and  problema- 
tical security.  He  had  ventured  much  on  a  cock-and-bull 
scheme — a  little  private  mare*s  nest  of  his  own  invention  ; 


AX  irXEXPFCrFP    l'/S//VA\ 


»05 


no 

i- 
n. 
w 


And  he  had  trnnblcd  for  years  for  his  precious  money. 
Vnd  htrre,  now,  was  ihc  very  heiress,  the  t/tui  /.r  m,i,hina 
(or  •/<•<!,  if  we  must  speak  by  the  card,  lest  cciuivocatiou 
utulo  us),  who  was  to  relieve  him  trom  all  his  fiuaucial 
follies,  and  justify  his  daruig,  aud  m.irry  Paul,  and  make 
repayment  certain.  Nay,  more  than  that,  as  Mr.  Solo- 
mons read  the  problem,  the  heiress  was  even  prepared  to 
pay  up  befoiehand,  in  order  to  relieve  her  future  husband 
from  the  weight  of  debt,  and  put  him  in  a  better  wa/,  no 
doubt,  for  building  up  for  himself  a  position  in  life  and 
society.  Mr.  Solomons  held  his  double  chin  between 
finger  and  thumb  as  he  pondered  deeply.  A  very  strong 
bait,  no  doubt,  this  offer  of  prompt  cash — a  very  strong 
bait  indeed  to  human  cupidity. 

And  yet  two  other  feelings  rose  powerful  at  once  in  Mr. 
Solomon's  mind  :  two  strange,  deep  feelings.  The  first 
was  this.  If  here  was  the  heiress  who  indeed  was  ready  to 
marry  Paul,  and  save  him  at  once  from  all  his  struggles 
and  difficulties,  why  should  Mr.  Solomons  let  her  discount 
him,  as  it  were,  at  present  value,  and  so  get  him  cheap, 
when,  by  holding  on  till  the  end,  and  selling  dear,  he  would 
reap  the  full  benefit  himself  of  his  long  investment  ? 
What's  the  use  of  embarking  in  a  doubtful  speculation  if 
you  don't  expect  to  get  well  repaid,  cent,  per  cent.,  in  the 
end  for  it  ?  How  foolish  to  get  frightened  with  land  in 
sight,  so  to  speak,  and  forego  the  harvest  of  your  own  wise 
adventurousness  !  Why,  Mr.  Solomons  would  like  to  hold 
on,  for  nothing  else,  in  order  to  show  his  nephew  Leo  he 
was  wrong  after  all,  and  that  Paul  would  book  his  heiress 
at  last,  and  pay  up,  like  a  young  man  of  honor  as  he  was, 
to  the  uttermost  farthing.  Twenty  per  cent,  and  annual 
renewals,  with  discount  off  for  the  extra  risk  to  start  with — 
and  to  the  uttermost  farthing. 

And  the  second  feeling?    Ah,  that  Mr.  Solomons  hardly 


\ 


i    ! 


906 


THE   aCALlYWAG. 


[|l;  ! 


Ill  •  ! 


■f 


even  admitted  to  his  own  soul.  He  would  have  been 
ashamed,  as  a  business  man,  to  admit  it.  But  it  was  there, 
nevertheless,  vague  and  undeierinined,  a  genuine  sentiment, 
in  some  undercurrent  of  consciousness.  Had  he  not  con- 
ceived all  this  scheme  himself,  and  risked  his  solid  cash  on 
the  chimerical  proposition  ?  Was  it  not  he  who  had  put 
Paul  to  school  and  college,  and  thus  acquired,  as  it  were, 
a  proprietary  interest  in  him?  Wasn't  Paul's  success  in 
life  his  own  business  now  ?  Had  he  backed  it  so  long,  and 
would  he  hedge  at  the  last  moment  in  favor  of  a  stranger? 
And  what  stranger?  Whatever  did  he  know  of  this  queer 
young  lady,  who  had  dropped  down  upon  him  from  the 
clouds,  with  her  brusque,  sharp  manners  and  her  eager 
American  promptitude?  Why  sell  Paul's  future  to  her  or 
anyone?  Was  not  Pau'  his  by  right  of  invest. nent,  and 
should  not  he  run  him  on  his  own  account,  to  win  or  to  lose, 
as  the  chances  of  the  game  of  life  would  have  it!  The 
gambling  spirit  was  strong  in  Mr.  Solomons,  after  all. 
Having  backed  his  horse,  he  liked  to  stand  by  him  like  a 
thorough  going  sportsman.  No  hed^iing  for  him.  And  a 
certain  sneaking  human  regard  for  Paul  made  him  say  to 
himself,  "  Why  hand  him  over,  bound  body  and  soul,  to  a 
golden-haired  young  L.dy  from  parts  unknown,  whose 
motives  for  buying  him  of  me  are,  after  all,  doubtful." 

So  he  stared  at  Isabel  hard  as  he  opened  his  safe  and 
took  out  the  precious  documents  with  trembling  fingers. 
Then  he  said,  "  The  total  sum  up  to  date  comes  to  a  trifle 
over  fifteen  hundred  pounds  sterling." 

"Only  fifteen  hundred!"  Isabel  cried  with  a  start. 
"And  he  makes  all  that  fuss  over  fifteen  hundred  pounds  ! 
Why,  say,  Mr.  Solomons,  I'll  give  you  two  thousand,  money 
down,  for  the  lot,  and  we'll  make  it  a  bargain." 

Mr.  Solomons  drew  a  deep  breath  and  hesitated.  Four 
hundred  and  seventy-odd  pounds  clear  profit — besides  the 


AN   UNEXPECTED    VISITOR. 


207 


compound  interest  at  twenty  per  cent. — was  more  than  his 
fondest  wish  had  ever  anticipated.  Such  a  young  woman 
as  that,  properly  worked,  would  indeed  be  a  perfect  mine  of 
wealth  for  a  capitalist  to  draw  upon.  He  looked  at  her 
long  and  his  heart  faltered.  Four  hundred  and  seventy, 
odd  pounds!  "  Well,  what  do  you  want  them  for?"  he 
asked  at  last  cautiously. 

"  That's  my  business,  I  guess,"  Isabel  answered  with 
sharp  incisiveness.  "To  burn 'em  if  I  choose,  perhaps. 
When  I  buy  things  at  a  store,  I  don't  usually  expect  to  tell 
the  drygoodsman  what  I  want  to  do  with  'em." 

Mr.  Solomons  eyed  with  an  inquisitive  look.  *'  Let's  be 
plain  and  aboveboard  with  one  another,"  he  said.  "  Do 
you  intend  to  marry  him  ? " 

"Oh,  my,  no,"  Isabel  answered  at  once  with  a  prompt 
decision  that  carried  conviction  in  its  very  tone  immedi- 
ately. 

Mr.  Solomons  was  nonplussed.  "  You  don't  want  to 
marry  him  I  "  he  exclaimed,  taken  aback. 

"  No,  I  aint  going  to  marry  him,"  Isabel  answered  stoutly, 
just  altering  the  phrase  into  closer  accordance  with  the 
facts  of  the  case,  but  otherwise  nodding  a  bland  acquies- 
cence. "  I  aint  going  to  marry  him,  I  give  you  my  word, 
Mr.  Solomons." 

"Then,  what  do  you  want?"  Mr.  Solomons  asked,  all 
amazed. 

"  I  want  those  papers,"  Isabel  answered  with  persistence. 

Mr.  Solomons  rose,  faltered  for  a  second,  replaced  them 
in  their  pigeon-hole  with  a  decided  air,  locked  the  safe,  and 
put  the  key  in  his  pocket.  Then  he  turned  round  to  Isabel 
with  a  very  gracious  smile,  and  observed  politely  : 

"  Have  a  glass  of  wine,  miss  ?" 

It  was  his  mode  of  indicating  with  graceful  precision  that 
the  question  between  them  was  settled — in  the  negative. 


\k'. 


'« 


(.       5'        I 


,-        I 


308 


THE    SCALLYWAG. 


n 


i;i>! 


lil 


'  '\ 


; 


Against  the  rock  of  that  decisive  impassive  attitude  the 
energetic  little  American  broke  herself  in  wild  foam  of 
entreaties  and  expostulations,  all  in  vain.  She  stormed, 
begged,  prayed,  and  even  condescended  to  burst  into  tears, 
but  all  to  no  purpose.  Mr.  Solomons,  now  his  mind  was 
once  made  up,  remained  hard  as  adamant.  All  she  could 
obtain  from  Mr.  Solomons  was  the  solemn  promise  that  he 
would  keep  this  fruitless  negotiation  a  dead  secret  from 
Paul  and  Faith,  and  would  never  even  mention  the  fact  of 
her  visit  to  Hillborough.  Thus  re-assured,  the  kind-hearted 
little  Pennsylvanian  dried  her  eyes,  and  refusing  in  return 
to  make  Mr,  Solomons  the  confidant  of  her  name,  descended 
the  stairs  once  more,  wondering  and  disappointed. 

•'  Shall  I  call  you  a  cab,  miss  ? "  Mr.  Solomons  asked 
politely  as  he  went  down  by  her  side. 

"Thank  you,  I've  gotten  one  waiting,"  Isabel  answered, 
trying  hard  to  look  unconcerned.  "  Will  you  tell  the  man 
to  drive  to  the  best  place  in  the  village  where  I  can  get 
something  to  eat."  For  Americans  wot  not  of  the  existence 
of  towns — to  them  everything  that  isn't  a  city  is  a  mere 
village. 

But  when  Mr.  Solomons  saw  the  driver  of  Isabel's  cab, 
he  gave  a  sudden  little  start  of  surprise,  and  exclaimed 
involuntarily,  "  Why,  bless  my  soul,  Gascoyne,  it's  you 
is  it  ?  The  young  lady  wants  to  be  driven  to  the  Golden 
Lion." 

Isabel  Boyton  drew  back,  herself  surprised  in  her  turn. 
"  You  don't  mean  to  say,"  she  cried,  looking  hard  at  the 
cabman,  "  this  is  Mr.  Gascoyne's  father." 

Mr.  Solomons  nodded  a  nod  of  acquiescence,  Isabel 
gazed  at  him  with  a  good  hard  stare,  as  one  gazes  at  a  new 
wild  beast  in  the  Zoo,  and  then  held  out  her  hand  frankly. 
"May  I  shake  hands  with  you  ?"  she  said.  "Thank  you 
very  much.     You  see,  it'll  be  something  for  me  to  tell  my 


HOXORS. 


309 


friends  when  I  get  back  home  to  America  that  I've  shaken 
hands  with  an  English  baronet." 

At  the  Golden  Lion  she  paused  as  she  paid  him.  "You're 
a  man  of  honor,  I  suppose,"  she  said.  Iiesitating  slightly. 

And  the  English  baronet  answered  with  truth,  *'  F  'opes  I 
is,  miss." 

"Then  I  trust  you,  Mr.  Gascoyne,  Sir  Emery,  or  what- 
ever else  it  ought  to  be,"  she  went  on  seriously.  "  You 
won't  mention  either  to  your  son  or  your  daughter  that  you 
drove  an  American  lady  to-day  to  Mr.  Solomons'  office." 

The  English  baronet  touched  his  hat  respectfully.  "  r'''ot 
if  I  was  to  die  for  it,  miss,"  he  answered  with  warmth  ;  for 
the  honest  grasp  of  Isabel's  hand  had  touched  some  inner- 
most chord  of  his  nature  till  it  resounded  strangely. 

But  Isabel  went  in  to  gulp  down  her  lunch  with  a  regret, 
ful  sense  of  utter  failure.  She  hadn't  succeeded  in  making 
things  easier,  as  she  had  hoped,  for  Paul  and  Nea. 

And  the  English  baronet  and  Mr.  Solomons  kept  their 
troth  like  men.  Paul  and  Faith  never  knew  Isabel  Boyton 
had  visited  Hillborough,  and  Mr.  Solomons  himself  never 
learned  the  name  of  his  mysterious  little  golden-haired 
American  visitor. 


U^fll 


^1 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


HONORS. 


The  rest  of  that  term  at  Oxford  was  a  dull  one  for  Paul. 
As  soon  as  Faith  and  Nea  "  went  down  "  (to  use  the  dear 
old  Oxford  phrase)  he  set  to  work  with  redoubled  vigor  at 
his  reading,  and  went  in  at  last  for  his  Final  examination. 
Upon  that  examination  much,  very  much  depended.  If 
only  he  could  gain  a  first,  he  would  stand  a  fair  chance  in 
time  for  a  fellowship  ;  and  a  fellowship  would  allow  him 


!'•"*'  !i| 


lf.:\\ 


2IO 


THE   SCAIJ  Vir.lG. 


!i  .  h 


i:  i; 


ll 


1    Jli 


;■    ll' 

■I! 

■■li 


id 


I  '1 


leisure  to  look  around,  and  to  lay  his  plans  for  slowly  re- 
paying Mr.  Solomons.  But  if  he  succeeded  merely  in  at- 
taining a  second  or  third,  his  prospects  of  a  fellow.ship 
would  be  greatly  decreased,  and  with  Lliem  the  probability 
of  his  shaking  off  that  load  of  debt  that  clogged  and  op- 
pressed him  in  all  his  schemes  for  the  future. 

He  knew,  of  course,  that  the  necessity  for  taking  pupils 
during  his  undergraduate  years  told  heavily  against  him. 
No  man  can  row  in  two  boats  at  once  ;  and  the  time  he  had 
used  ap  in  reading  with  Thistleton  and  his  other  pupils  had 
been  so  much  subtracted  from  the  time  he  ought  to  have 
devoted  to  his  own  reading.  Still,  he  was  able,  undeniably 
able  ;  and,  little  disposed  to  overestimate  his  own  powers  as 
he  was,  he  had,  nevertheless,  a  dim  consciousness  in  his  own 
soul  that,  given  even  chances,  he  was  more  than  a  match 
for  most  of  his  contemporaries.  He  had  worked  hard, 
meanwhile,  to  make  up  for  lest  time  ;  and  he  went  into  the 
examination  cheered  and  sustained  by  the  inspiring  thought 
that  Nea  Blair's  eyes  were  watching  his  success  or  failure 
from  afar  in  Cornwall. 

Day  after  day  he  worked  and  wrote  in  those  dreary 
Schools,  deep  in  Aristotle,  Plato,  Grote,  and  Mommsen. 
Night  after  night  he  compared  notes  with  his  competitors, 
and  marked  the  strong  or  weak  points  of  their  respective 
compositions.  As  time  went  on  his  spirits  rose  higher.  He 
was  sure  he  was  doing  himself  full  justice  in  his  papers. 
He  was  sure  what  he  had  to  say  upon  most  of  the  ques- 
tions asked  in  the  Schools  was  more  original  and  more 
philosophical  than  the  ideas  and  opinions  of  any  of  his 
neighbors.  He  felt  quite  at  ease  about  his  success  now. 
And  if  only  once  he  could  get  his  first,  he  was  pretty  sure 
of  a  fellowship,  and  of  some  chance  at  least  of  repaying  Mr. 
Solomons. 

At  last  the  examination  was  over,  the  papers  sent  in,  and 


r- 


HOiVORS. 


211 


nothing  remained  but  that  long,  weary  delay  while  the  ex- 
aminers are  glancing  over  the  tops  of  the  answers  and 
pretending  to  estimate  the  relative  places  of  the  camlidates. 
Paul  waited  and  watched  with  a  yearning  heart.  How 
much  hung  for  hir.i  on  the  issue  of  that  dreaded  class  list  ! 

On  the  day  when  it  came  out,  nailed  up  according  to  Ox- 
ford wont  on  the  doors  of  the  Schools,  he  stole  into  the 
quadrangle  half  an  hour  late — he  couldn't  bear  to  be  there 
with  the  first  eager  rush — and  looked  among  the  G's  in  the 
First  Class  for  the  name  of  Gascoyne. 

It  was  with  a  thrill  of  surprise — only  surprise  at  first — 
that  he  noticed  the  list  went  straight  from  Gait  to  Groves  : 
there  was  no  Gascoyne  at  all  in  the  place  where  he  expected 
it.  He  rubbed  his  eyes  and  looked  again.  Surely  some 
mistake  ;  for  the  names  go  in  each  class  in  alphabetical 
order.  G-a-1,  G-a-s,  G-r-o.  Had  they  misspelt  it  some- 
how  ?  Then,  all  at  once,  the  truth  flashed  across  his  mind 
in  a  horrible  revelation.  The  truth,  or  a  part  of  it.  His 
name  wasn't  put  in  the  First  Class  at  all  !  He  must  have 
taken  a  Second  ! 

For  a  moment  he  could  hardly  believe  his  eyes.  It  was 
all  too  strange,  all  too  incredible.  He  had  worked  so  hard. 
he  had  deserved  it  so  well !  But,  still  he  must  face  the 
worst  like  a  man.  He  fixed  his  glance  steadily  on  the 
Second  Class.  Farrington,  Flood,  Galbraith,  (iirdlestone. 
He  rubbed  his  eyes  once  more.  Was  he  going  mad  on  the 
spot  ?  Or  had  the  examiners  neglected  to  place  him  alto- 
gether ? 

With  a  vague  sinking  feeling  about  his  left  breast,  he 
glanced  yet  lower  to  where  the  Third  Class  filled  up  its  two 
much  longer  columns.  About  halfway  down  his  eyes  caught 
his  own  name  with  that  miraculous  rapidity  whith  enables 
one  always  to  single  out  those  familiar  words  on  a  printed 
page   from   a  thousand    others.     "  Gascoyne,    Paulus,   ex 


m 


1 

1 

*               j 

1  . 

1     ;.     ^       '1 

'I 


flia 


THE   SCALLYWAG, 


li     !i 


/^At  Christi."  Yes,  yes,  it  was  too  true.  There  was  no 
denying  it.  A  Third — the  lowest  of  all  classes  in  honors — 
was  all  he  had  got  for  all  his  toil  and  trouble  ! 

He  reeled  as  he  stood,  sick — sick  with  disap[)ointment. 

How  had  it  happened?  Who  knows?  Who  can  say? 
It's  the  greatest  mistake  in  the  world  to  suppose  the  best 
men  always  come  uppermost.  If  a  board  of  third  class 
men  in  afterlife  were  to  examine  their  examiners,  it  is 
highly  probable  they  might  often  turn  the  tables  on  the 
dons  who  misplaced  them.  Humanum  est  errare,  and  ex- 
aminers are  human.  They  often  make  blunders,  like  all 
the  rest  of  us,  and  they  added  one  more  to  that  long 
list  of  mistakes  when  they  gave  Paul  Gascoyne  a  Third  in 
Finals. 

The  fact  is  Paul  was  original ;  and  Oxford,  like  Mr. 
Peter  Magnus,  hates  originality.  A  decorous  receptivity  is 
what  it  most  prefers.  It  likes  a  human  mind  to  be  modeled 
on  the  phonographic  pattern — prompt  to  take  in  exactly 
what  it  is  told,  and  ready  to  give  it  out  once  more,  pre- 
cisely as  inspired,  whenever  you  turn  the  barrel  on  again  by 
pressing  the  handle.  In  Paul's  essays,  the  examiners 
detected  some  flavor  of  ideas  which  appeared  to  them 
wholly  unfounded  on  any  opinions  set  forth  by  Professor 
Jowett  or  Mr.  T.  H.  Green  of  Balliol ;  and,  shocked  at 
this  revolt  from  established  usage,  they  relegated  their 
author  to  a  Third  Class,  accordingly. 

But  Paul,  for  the  moment,  knew  none  of  these  things. 
He  was  only  aware  that  a  crushing  blow  had  fallen  upon 
him  unexpectedly  ;  and  he  went  back  inconsolable  to  his 
own  rooms  in  Peckwater  ;  where  he  sported  his  oak,  or  big 
-.tcr  door,  flung  himself  passionately  into  his  easy-chair, 
and  had  his  bad  hour  alone  by  himself  in  unutterable  mis- 
ery. It  was  hard  to  have  worked  so  long  and  so  well  for 
so  bitter  a  disappointment.     But  these  things  happen  often, 


HONORS. 


aij 


and  will  happen  always,  as  long  as  men  consent  to  let  tliern- 
selves  be  measured  by  a  foot-rule  measurement  like  so 
many  yards  of  brick  and  mortar.  They  are  the  tribute  we 
pay  to  the  examination  Juggernaut.  It  crushes  the  best, 
and  rolls  unfelt  over  the  bodies  of  the  hardest. 

Paul  lunched  alone  ;  he  was  incapable  of  going  into 
Thistleton's  rooms,  as  he  often  did  for  luncheon  ;  but  at 
two  o'clock  he  heard  a  loud  knocking  at  his  big  oak  door — 
contrary  to  all  established  rules  of  University  etiquette  ; 
for  when  once  a  man  fastens  that  outer  barrier  of  his  minor 
castle,  he  is  supposed  to  be  ill,  or  out  of  town,  or  otherwise 
engaged,  and  inaccessible  for  the  time  being,  even  to  his 
nearest  and  dearest  intimates.  However,  he  opened  it  re- 
gardless of  the  breach,  and  found  Thistleton  waiting  for 
him  on  the  landing,  very  red-faced.  The  blond  young 
man  grasped  his  hand  hard,  with  a  friendly  pressure. 

"  Gascoyne,"  he  cried,  bursting,  and  hardly  able  to  gasp 
with  stifled  indignation,  "  this  is  just  atrocious.  It's  wicked  ; 
it's  incredible.  1  know  who  it  was.  Confound  his  impu- 
dence !  It  wai  that  beast  Pringle.  Let's  go  round  to 
John's,  and  punch  his  ugly  old  head  for  him  !  " 

In  spite  of  his  disappointment,  Paul  smiled  bitterly.  Of 
what  good  would  it  be  to  punch  the  senior  examiner's 
head,  now  that  irrevocable  class  list  had  once  been  issued. 

••  I  wanted  to  be  alone,  Thistleton,"  he  said  ;  "  it  was 
almost  more  than  I  can  bear  in  company.  It  wasn't  for 
myself,  you  know,  but  for — for  the  heavy  claims  that  weigh 
upon  me.  However,  since  you've  come  and  broken  my 
oak,  let's  go  down  the  river  to  Sandford  Lasher  in  a  tub  pair 
and  work  it  off.  There's  nothing  like  muscular  effort  to 
carry  away  these  things.  If  I  don't  work  I  feel  as  if  I 
could  sit  down  and  cry  like  a  girl.  What  I  feel  most  is — 
the  gross  injustice  of  it." 

And  gross  injustice  is  quite  inevitable  as  long  as  men 


4 


:t 


\  ■■■. 

'f   I   I 


t-f'  '    1 


214 


THE   SC^ll  I.  YWAC. 


I" 


t 


I'    ill; 


think  a  set  of  meritorious  and  hard  working  schoolmasters 
can  be  trusted  to  place  in  strict  order  of  merit  the  pick 
and  flower  of  intelligent  young  Knglishmen.  The  vile 
examination  system  has  in  it  nothing  viler  than  this  all 
but  certain  chance  of  crushing  at  the  outset,  by  waul  of 
success  in  a  foolish  race,  the  cleverest,  most  vivid,  and 
most  original  geniuses. 

They  went  down  the  river,  I'histleton  still  protesting  his 
profound  intention  of  punching  I'ringle's  head,  and,  as 
they  rowed  and  rowed,  Paul  gradually  worked  off  tiie  worst 
of  his  emotion.  Then  he  came  back,  and  dined  alone,  to 
try  to  accommodate  himself  to  his  new  position.  All  his 
plans  in  life  had  hitherto  be^n  based  upon  the  tacit 
assumi)iion  that  he  would  take  a  First — an  assumption  in 
which  he  had  been  duly  backed  by  all  who  knew  him — and 
now  that  he  found  himself  stranded  on  the  bank  with  a  Third 
instead,  he  had  to  begin  and  reconsider  his  prospects  in 
the  world  under  the  terrible  weight  of  this  sudden  dis- 
illusionment. A  fellowship  would  now,  no  doubt,  be  a 
practical  impossibility  ;  he  must  turn  his  attention  to  some 
other  opening — if  any. 

But  the  more  he  thought,  the  less  he  saw  his  way  clear 
before  him.  And,  in  effect,  what  can  a  young  man  of 
promise,  but  without  capital,  and  backed  only  by  a  Third 
in  Greats,  find  to  turn  his  hand  to  in  these  latter  days  in 
this  jammed  and  overstocked  realm  of  England  ?  Of  what 
practical  use  to  him  now  was  this  costly  education,  for 
which  he  had  mortgaged  his  whole  future  for  years  in 
advance  to  Mr.  Solomons  ?  The '  Bar  could  only  be 
entered  after  a  long  and  expensive  apprenticeship,  and 
even  then  he  would  in  all  probaoility  do  nothing  but  swell 
the  noble  ranks  of  the  briefless  barristers.  Medicine 
required  an  equally  costly  and  tedious  novitiate.  From 
the  Church  he  was  cut  off  by  want  of  sufficient  faith  or 


//OA'OA'S. 


215 


or 


natural  vocation.  No  man  can  become  a  solicitor  offhand 
any  more  than  he  can  become  a  banker,  a  brewer,  or  a 
landed  proprietor.  I'aul  ran  over  all  conceivable  pro- 
fessions  rapidly  in  his  nnnd,  and  saw  none  open  before 
him  save  that  solitary  refuge  of  the  destitute — to  become  a 
schoolmaster;  and  even  that,  with  a  Third  in  (Ireats  for 
his  sole  recommendation,  would  certainly  be  by  no  means 
either  easy  or  remunerative. 

And  then  Mr.  Solomons  !  What  would  Mr.  Solomons 
say  to  such  a  move  ?  He  would  never  allow  his  prot/g^  Ui 
take  to  schoolmastering.  Mr.  Solomons.'  ideals  for  him 
were  all  so  different.  He  always  figured  to  himself  Paul 
taking  his  proper  place  in  society  as  the  heir  to  a  baronetcy, 
and  there  captivating  and  capturing  that  supposititicnis 
heiress  by  the  charms  of  his  person  and  the  graces  of  his 
high-born  aristocratic  manners.  But  to  become  a  school- 
master !  In  Mr.  Solomons*  eyes  that  would  be  simply  to 
chuck  away  the  one  chance  of  success.  What  he  wanted 
was  to  see  Paul  living  in  good  chambers  in  London,  and 
moving  about  among  the  great  world,  where  his  prospective 
title  would  mean  in  the  end  money  or  money's  worth  for 
him.  If  the  heir  of  all  the  Gascovnes  had  to  descend  to 
the  drudgery  of  mere  schoolmastering,  it  would  be  neces- 
sary to  have  an  explanation  with  Mr.  Solomons  ;  and  then 
— and  then  his  father's  dream  must  vanish  for  ever. 

How  could  he  ever  have  been  foolish  enough  in  such  cir- 
cumstances to  speak  to  Nea  !  His  heart  misgave  him  that 
he  had  been  so  unkind  and  so  cruel.  He  would  have  bar- 
tered his  eyes  now  if  only  he  could  undo  the  past.  And, 
even  as  he  thought  .so,  he  unfastened  his  desk  and,  so  weak 
is  man,  sat  down  to  write  a  passionate  appeal  for  advice 
and  sympathy  and  aid  from  Nea. 

He  could  never  marry  her.  But  she  would  always  be 
his.     And  it  calmed  his  soul,  somehow,  to  write  to  Nea. 


1'^-  il 


'  Sv 


:1      i 
'  ■  ill 


2l6 


7 //A  scAU  vn'Aa. 


As  lie  wrote  a  knock  came  at  the  sported  oak — the  sliarp 
double  rap  that  announces  a  telegram.  He  opened  the 
door  and   took    it  from  the  bearer  : 

"To  Paul  Gascoynf.  Christ  Church,  Oxford. 

"Mrs.  Douglas  has  telegraphed  me  result  of  class  list. 
Your  <lisappointment  is  tny  disapjiointment.  1  feel  it 
deeply,  but  send  you  all  sympathy.  You  must  take  to 
literature  now.  Nea," 


■f' 


lie  flung  himself  back  in  his  easy-chair  once  more  and 
kissed  that  flimsy  bit  of  cheap  paper  fervently.  'I'hen  Nea 
had  taken  the  trouble  to  arrange  beforehand  with  Mrs. 
Douglas  for  a  telegram.  Nea  hid  beeti  puzzling  her  head 
about  the  self-same  problems.  Nea  hail  felt  for  him  in  his 
day  of  humiliation.  He  would  work  away  yet,  and  clear 
himself  for  Nea.  Mr.  Solomons  should  still  be  paid  off 
somehow.     And  sooner  or  later  he  must  marry  Nea. 

'I'ill  that  night  he  had  never  even  dared  to  think  it.  But 
just  then,  in  his  deepest  hour  of  despair,  that  bold  thought 
came  home  to  him  as  a  fresh  spur  to  effort.  Impossible, 
incredible,  unattainable  as  it  seemed,  he  would  pay  off  all 
and  marry  Nea. 

The  resolve  alone  was  worth  something. 

Mechanically  he  rose  and  went  to  his  desk  once  more. 
This  time  he  pulled  out  a  clean  sheet  of  foolscap.  The 
need  for  an  outlet  was  strong  upon  him  now.  He  took  up 
his  pen,  and  almost  without  thinking  sm  down  and  wrote 
furiously  and  rapidly.  He  wrote  as  he  had  rowed  that 
afternoon  to  Sandford  Lasher,  in  the  wild  desire  to  work 
off  his  excitement  and  depression  in  some  engrossing  occu- 
pation. He  wrote  far  into  the  small  hours  of  the  night, 
and,  when  he  had  finished  some  seven  or  eight  closely 
written  foolscap  sheets,  he  spent  another  long  time  in  cor- 


li    )] 


COM  PENS  A  riON, 


ai7 


reeling  and  repolishing  them.  At  last  he  got  up  and 
stiollcd  off  to  bed.  lie  had  followed  Nca's  advice,  red  hot 
at  the  nioineiu.  He  had  written  for  dear  life.  All  other 
means  failing  he  had  taken  to  literature. 

And  that  is  about  the  way  we  all  of  us  who  live  by  the 
evil  trade  first  took  to  it. 


CHAPIKK   XXV. 


COMFENSATION. 

As  it  happened,  that  most  terrible  disappointment  in  all 
his  life  was  probably  the  luckiest  thing  on  earth  that  could 
possibly  have  befallen  Paul  (lascoyne.  Had  he  taken  a 
First,  and  then  gained  a  fellowship,  he  would  doubtless 
have  remained  up  at  Oxford  for  many  years  to  come,  plod- 
ding and  couChing,  leading  a  necessarily  expensive  and 
useless  life,  and  paying  off  Mr.  Solomons  but  very  slowly 
by  long-deferred  instalments  out  of  his  scanty  savings.  As 
it  was,  however,  being  thus  cast  adrift  on  the  world  upon 
his  own  resources,  he  was  compelled  more  frankly  to  face 
life  for  himself,  and  to  find  some  immediate  paying  work 
which  would  enable  him  to  live  by  hook  or  by  crook,  as 
best  he  might,  over  the  next  six  months  or  so.  And  that 
prompt  necessity  for  earning  his  salt  proved,  in  fact,  his 
real  salvation.  Not,  of  course,  that  he  gave  up  at  once  the 
idea  of  a  fellowship.  He  was  too  brave  a  man  to  let  even 
a  Third  in  Greats  deter  him  from  having  a  final  fling  at  the 
hopelessly  unattainable.  A  week  later  he  went  in  for  the 
very  first  vacancy  that  turned  up,  and  missed  it  nobly, 
being  beaten  by  a  thick-headed  Balliol  Scot,  who  knew  by 
heart  every  opinion  of  every  recognized  authority  on  every, 
thing  earthly,  from  Plato  and  Aristotle  down  to  John 
Stuart  Mill  and  Benjamin  Jowett.     So,  having  thus  finally 


:--ii 


3l8 


THE  SCALLYWAG, 


\ 


buried  his  only  chance  of  University  preferment  btlorc 
October  term,  Paul  set  to  work  with  a  brave  heart  to  look 
about  him  manfully  for  some  means  of  Itvclihuud  that  might 
title  him  over  the  summer  vacation. 

Mis  first  idea — the  stereotyped  first  idea  of  every  unem- 
ployed young  Oxford  man — was,  of  course,  to  get  pupils. 
Hut  pupils  for  the  I^ong  don't  grow  on  every  bush  :  and 
here  again  that  strange  divinity  that  shapes  our  ends,  rough- 
hew  them  how  we  may,  proved  kindly  favorable  to  him. 
Not  a  single  aspirant  answered  his  intimation,  duly  hung 
among  a  dozen  or  so  ecpially  attractive  announcements  on 
the  notice-board  of  the  union,  that  *'  Mr.  Paul  (iascoyne,  of 
Christ  Church,  would  be  glad  to  read  with  pupils  for  Mods 
during  the  long  vacation."  Thus,  thrown  upon  his  beam- 
ends  by  the  necessities  of  the  case,  Paul  was  fairly  com- 
pelled to  follow  Nea's  advice  and  *'take  to  literature." 

But  *•  taking  to  literature  "  is  not  so  easy  as  it  sounds  to 
those  who  have  never  tried  it.  Everybody  can  write  now- 
adays, thanks  to  the  Board  Schools,  and  brave  the  supreme 
difficulty  of  the  literary  profession.  An  open  trade — a 
trade  which  needs  no  special  apprenticeship — is  always 
overstocked.  Every  gate  is  thronged  with  suitors  ;  all  the 
markets  overflow.  And  so  Paul  hardly  dared  to  hope  even 
for  the  modest  success  wh.ch  may  keep  a  bachelor  in  bread 
and  butter.  Bread  and  buuer  is  much,  indeed,  to  expect 
from  one's  brains  in  these  latter  days,  when  dry  bread  is 
the  lot  of  most  literary  aspirants.  Little  as  he  knew  of  the 
perils  of  the  way,  Paul  trembled  to  think  what  fate  might 
have  in  store  for  him. 

Nevertheless,  on  the  very  night  of  his  bitter  disappoint- 
ment, over  the  Oxford  class  list,  he  had  .sat  down  and 
written  off  that  hasty  article — a  mere  playful  sketch  of  a 
certain  phase  of  English  life  as  he  well  knew  it,  for  he  was 
not  without  his  sense  of  humor ;  and  reading  it  over  at  his 


COMPEKSA  riON, 


aiQ 


leisure  the  succecdiujj;  morniiiK  he  saw  that,  though  tint 
(juite  so  good  as  lie  thought  it  last  night,  in  his  fcvtrish 
earnestness,  it  was  still  by  no  means  wanting  in  point  and 
brilliancy.  So,  with  nuich  fear  and  trembling,  he  inclosed 
it  in  an  envelope,  and  sent  it  off,  with  a  brief  letter  com- 
mendatory, to  the  dreaded  editor  of  tiie  Afom/dy  Remftn- 
briincir.  And  then,  having  fired  his  bolt  in  the  dark,  he 
straightway  tried  to  forget  all  about  it,  for  fear  of  its  en- 
tailing  on  him  still  further  disappointment. 

For  a  week  or  ten  days  he  waited  in  vain,  during  which 
time  he  occupied  all  his  spare  moments  in  trying  his  'pren- 
tice  hand  at  yet  other  articles.  For,  indeetl,  Paul  hardly 
understood  himself  as  yet  how  strait  is  the  gate  and  how 
narrow  is  the  way  by  which  men  enter  into  even  that  outer 
vestibule  of  journalism.  He  little  knew  how  many  proffered 
articles  are  in  most  cases  **  declined  with  thanks"  before 
the  most  modest  little  elfus  r)n  stands  a  stray  chance  of 
acceptance  from  the  journalistic  magnates.  Most  young 
men  think  it  a  very  easy  thing  to  '•  write  for  the  papers." 
It  is  only  when  they  come  to  see  the  short  shrift  their  own 
best  efforts  obtain  from  |)rofessional  critics  that  they  begin 
to  understand  how  coy  and  shy  and  hard  to  woo  is  the  un- 
certain  modern  muse  who  presides  unseen  over  the  daily 
printing-press.  But  of  all  this,  Paul  was  still  by  rare  good 
luck  most  innocently  ignorant.  Had  he  known  it  all, 
brave  and  sturdy  as  he  was,  he  might  have  fallen  down  and 
fainted  perchance  on  the  threshold. 

At  the  end  of  ten  days,  however,  to  his  deep  delight,  a 
letter  came  back  from  that  ine.xorable  editor — a  cautious 
letter,  neither  accepting  nor  rejecting  Paul's  proffered 
paper,  but  saying  in  guarded,  roundabout  language  that,  if 
Mr.  Gascoyne  happened  to  be  in  town  any  time  next  week, 
the  editor  could  spare  him  just  twenty  minutes'  private  con- 
versation. 


ii.-ij 


il 


220 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


\ 

V, 

1:  : 

l\  i 

■'11 
J, 

r 

1  ■■ 

i 

By  a  curious  coincidence  Paul  was  in  town  early  next 
week,  and  the  inexo;able  editor,  sitting-  with  watch  open 
before  him  to  keep  jealous  guard  lest  Paul  might  exceed 
the  stipulated  twenty  minutes,  expounded  to  him  with  crude 
editorial  frankness  his  views  about  his  new  contributor's 
place  in  journalism. 

"  Have  you  ever  written  before?"  the  editor  asked  him 
sharply,  ye't  with  the  familiar  wearied  journalistic  air  (as  of 
a  man  v/ho  has  sat  up  all  night  at  a  leader),  pouncing  down 
upon  him  like  a  hawk  upon  a  lark,  from  under  his  bushy 
eyebrows. 

Paul  admitted  with  some  awe,  and  no  little  diffidence, 
that  this  was  his  first  peccadillo  in  that  particular  direction 
— the  one  error  of  an  otherwise  blameless  existence. 

"  Of  course,"  the  editor  answered,  turning  over  his  poor 
foolscap  with  a  half  contemptuous  hand.  "  I  saw  that  at 
a  glance.  I  read  it  in  the  style,  or  want  of  style.  I  didn't 
need  to  be  told  so,  I  only  asked  by  force  of  habit  for 
further  confirmation.  Well,  you  know,  Mr.  Gascoyne, 
there's  no  use  dis^':uising  the  fact.  You  can't  write — no, 
you  can't  write — you  can't  write  worth  a  kick,  or  anything 
like  it  !  "  And  he  snapped  down  his  mouth  with  a  vicious 
snap  as  one  snaps  a  rat-trap  demonstratively  between  one's 
thumb  and  finger. 

"  No  ?  "  Paul  said,  in  an  interrogative  voice,  and  some- 
what crestfallen,  much  wondering  why,  in  that  case,  the 
busy  editor,  who  measured  his  minutes  strictly  by  'he 
watch,  had  taken  the  trouble  to  send  for  him  all  the  way  up 
from  Oxford. 

"  No,  indeed,  you  can't,"  the  editor  answered,  argumen- 
tatively,  liko  one  who  expects  to  be  contradicted,  but  won't 
brook  contradiction.  "  Just  look  here  at  this  now,  and  at 
thisy  and  this,''  and  as  he  spoke  the  great  man  rapidly  scored 
with  his  pencil  one  or  two  of  the  most  juvenile  faults  of 


n 


COMPENSA  TION. 


221 


the  style  in  Paul's  nently  written  but  undeniably  amateurish 
little  essay. 

Paul  was  forced  to  admit  to  himself,  as  the  editor  scored 
them,  that  these  particular  constructions  were  undoubtedly 
weak.  They  smelt  of  youth  and  of  inexperience,  and  he 
trembled  for  himself  as  the  editor  went  on  with  merciless 
quill  to  correct  and  alter  them  into  rough  accordance  with 
the  Remembrancer  s  own  exalted  literary  standard.  Through 
the  whole  eight  pages  or  so  the  editor  ran  lightly  with 
practiced  pen — enlarging  here,  contracting  there,  brighten- 
ing yonder — exactly  as  Paul  had  seen  the  -tutors  at  Christ 
Church  amend  the  false  concords  or  doubtful  quantities  in 
a  passman's  faulty  Latin  verse.  The  rapidity  and  certainty 
of  the  editor's  touch,  indeed,  was  something  surprising. 
Paul  saw  for  himself,  as  the  ruthless  censor  proceeded  in 
the  task,  that  his  workmanship  was  really  very  bad.  He 
felt  instinctively  how  crude  and  youthful  were  his  own  vain 
attempts  at  the  purveyance  of  literature.  At  the  end,  when 
the  editor  had  disfigured  his  whole,  beautiful,  neatly  written 
article  with  illegible  scratches,  cabalistic  signs,  and  frequent 
alterations,  the  poor  young  man  looked  down  at  it  with  a 
sigh,  and  half  murmured  below  his  breath, 

"  Then,  of  course,  you  don't  intend  to  print  it." 

The  editor,  for  all  reply,  sounded  a  small  gong  by  his 
side  and  waited.  In  answer  to  the  summons  a  boy,  some- 
what the  worse  for  lamp-black,  entered  the  august  presence 
and  stood  attentive  for  orders.  The  editor  handed  him  the 
much  altered  pages  with  a  lordly  wave.  "  Press  !  "  he  said, 
laconically,  and  brushed  him  aside.  The  boy  nodded  and 
disappeared  as  in  a  pantomime. 

Then  the  editor  glanced  at  his  watch  once  more.     He 
ran  his  fingers  once  or  twice  through  his  hair  with  a  preoccu 
pied  air,  and  stared  straight  in  front  of  him.     For  a  minute 
he  hummed  and  mused  as  if  alone.     After  that  he  woke 


s|| 


f                * 

>'  'J;  ■ 

, 

1 
1 

I  ii 


332 


THE  SCALLYWAG. 


lii!  \ 


up  suddenly,  and  answered  with  a  start,  "  Yes,  I  do  though  ; 
1  mean  to  print  it — as  amended.  A  great  deal  of  it  will 
have  to  come  out,  of  course  ;  but  I  mean  to  print  it." 

**  Thank  you  very  much,"  Paul  cried,  overpowered. 

"  And  I'll  tell  you  why,"  the  editor  went  on,  never  heed- 
ing his  thanks — to  editors,  all  that  is  mere  contributor's 
business.  "  It  isn't  written  a  bit ;  oh,  dear  iiO,  not  written^ 
but  it's  real — it  has  stuff  in  it." 

"  I'm  so  glad  you  think  so,"  Paul  exclaimed,  brightening. 

Then  the  editor  cut  him  short  with  a  rapid  wave  of  his 
imperious  pen.  Editors  have  no  time  to  let  themse'ver.  i)'^ 
thanked  or  talked  to.  "  You  have  something  to  wrin. 
about,"  he  said — "  something  new  and  fresh.  In  one  word, 
vous  connaissez  vo^re  t/wnde^  and  that's  just  what's  vvanted 
nowadays  in  journalism.  We  require  specialUts.  A  man 
who  knows  all  about  the  Chicago  poik  tiade's  a  more  useful 
man  to  us,  by  a  hundred  gui  ;as,  than  a  fellow  who  can 
write  well  in  limpid  English  on  any  blessed  subject  under 
heaven  you  may  set  him.  Nullum  tetigit  quod  non  ornavit — 
Dean  Swift  and  the  broomstick — all  moonshine  nowadays  ! 
Crispness  and  originality  are  mere  drugs  in  the  market. 
What  we  want  is  the  men  who  have  the  actual  stuff  in  them. 
Now _)'(?«  have  the  stuff  in  you.  You  know  your  world. 
This  article  shows  you  thoroughly  understand  the  manners 
and  modes  of  thought  of  the  petite  bourgeoisie.'* 

"  I  belong  to  them,  in  fact,"  Paul  put  in,  interrupting 
him. 

The  editor  received  the  unnecessary  information  with 
polite  indifference.  For  his  part,  it  mattered  nothing  on 
earth  to  him  whether  his  contributor  were  a  duke  or  a 
Manchu  Tartar.  What  mattered  was  the  fact  that  he 
had  something  to  communicate.  He  nodded,  yawned,  and 
continued  listlessly,  **  Quite  so,"  he  said.  "  You  under- 
stand the  class.     Our  readers  belong  to  a  different  order. 


H 


COMPENSA  TION. 


223 


They're  mostly  gentlefolks  :  you  seem  from  your  article  to 
be  a  greengrocer's  assistant.  Therefore  you've  got  some- 
thing fresh  to  tell  theni.  This  is  an  age  when  society's 
consumed  with  a  burning  desire  to  understand  its  own 
component  elements.  Half  the  world  wants  to  know,  for 
the  first  time  in  its  life,  how  the  other  half  lives,  just  to 
spite  the  proverb.  The  desire's  incomprehensible,  but  still 
it  exists ;  and  the  journalist  thrives  by  virtue  of  recogniz- 
ing all  actualities.  If  you  refuse  to  recognize  the  '\ctual — 
like  the  Planet  and  the  Matutinal  Herald  for  example — 
you  go  to  the  wall  as  sure  as  fate.  Mr. — ah'm — where's 
your  card  ? — ah,  yes— Gascoyne,  we  shall  want  a  series  of 
a  dozen  or  so  of  these  articles." 

Paul  hardly  knew  how  to  express  his  thanks.  The  editor 
cut  him  short  with  a  weary  wave.  "  And  mind,"  he  said, 
drawling,  "  no  quotations  from  Juvenal.  You're  an  Oxford 
man,  I  see.  Young  man,  if  you  would  prosper,  avoid  your 
Juvenal.  University  men  always  go  wrong  on  that.  They 
can't  keep  Juvenal  out  of  modern  life  and  newspaper 
leaders.  You've  no  less  than  three  tags  from  the  Third 
Satire,  I  observe,  in  this  ore  short  article.  Three  tags 
from  the  classics  at  a  single  go  would  damn  the  best 
middle  that  ever  was  penned.  Steer  clear  of  them  in  future 
and  try  to  be  actual.  Your  articles  'II  want  a  great  deal  of 
hacking  and  hewing,  of  course  ;  I  shall  have  to  prune  them  ; 
but  still,  you've  the  stuff  in  you."  He  glanced  at  his  watch 
uncisily  once  more.  **  The  first  next  Wednesday,"  he  went 
on,  with  a  significant  look  toward  the  door.  "  I'm  very 
busy  just  at  present."  His  hand  was  fumbling  nervously 
among  his  papers  now.  He  rang  the  little  gong  a  second 
time.  "  Proof  of  the  *  Folly  of  the  Government,'  "  he 
remarked  to  the  boy.  "  Good-morning,  Mr. — Gascoyne. 
Please  don't  forget.     Not  later  than  Wednesday." 

"  Please  don't  forget ;  "  as  if  it  was  likely ;  or  as  if  he 


il  .■   .;1| 


!v*'.f| 


I '. 


i 


324 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


Ill 


suffered  from  such  a  plethora  of  work  that  he  would  fail  to 
supply  it.  Why,  the  very  chance  of  such  an  engagement 
as  that  made  him  wild  with  excitement.  And  Paul  Gas- 
coyne  went  down  the  wooden  steps  that  afternoon  a  happy 
man,  and  a  real  live  journalist  on  the  staff  of  the  Monday 
Remembrancer, 


chaptf:r  XXVI. 


AN    INTRODUCTION. 


1 


Nemo  repente  fit  turpissimitSy  and  nobody  becomes  by 
design  a  journalist.  Men  drift  into  the  evil  trade  as  they 
drift  into  drink,  crime,  or  politics— by  force  of  circum- 
stances. They  take  it  up  first  because  they've;  nothing  else 
ready  to  hand  to  do,  and  they  go  on  with  it  because  they 
see  no  possible  way  of  getting  out  of  it.  Paul  Gascoyne, 
however,  by  way  of  the  exception  to  every  rule,  having  thus 
unexpectedly  drifted  into  the  first  head- waters  of  a  journal- 
istic career,  began  seriously  to  contemplate  making  his 
work  in  life  of  it.  In  this  design  he  was  further  encouraged 
by  the  advice  and  assistance  of  Mr.  Solomons,  who  would 
have  energetically  protested  against  anything  so  vulgar  as 
schoolmastering,  as  being  likely  to  interfere  with  his  plans 
for  Paul's  brilliant  future  ;  but  who  considered  an  occa- 
sional excursion  into  the  domain  of  literature  as  by  no 
means  derogatory  to  the  dignity  even  of  one  who  was 
destined  to  becorne,  in  course  of  time,  a  real  live  baronet. 
Nay,  Mr.  Solomons  went  so  far  in  his  commendation  of  the 
craft  as  to  dwell  with  peculiar  pride  and  pleasure  on  the 
career  of  a  certain  noble  lord  who  was  not  ashamed  in  his 
day  to  take  his  three  guineas  a  column  from  a  distinguished 
weekly,  and  who  afterward,  by  the  unexpected  demise  of 


AN  INTRODUCTION. 


225 


ar  elder  brother,  rose  to  the  actual  dignity  of  a  Biitish 
marquisate.  These  things  being  so,  Mr.  Solomons  opined 
that  Paul,  though  born  to  shine  in  courts,  might  blame- 
lessly Cf)ntribute  to  the  Monday  Remembrancer^  and  might 
pocket  his  more  modest  guinea  without  compunction  in  such 
excellent  company.  For  what  company  can  be  better  than 
that  of  the  Lords  of  the  ('ouncil,  endowed,  as  we  all  well 
know  them  to  be,  with  grace,  wisdom,  and  understanding  ? 

Moreover,  Mr.  Solomons  had  other  ideas  of  his  own  for 
Paul  in  his  head.  It  would  be  so  well  for  Leo  to  improve 
his  acquaintance  with  the  future  bearer  .of  the  Gascoyne 
title  ;  and  it  would  be  so  well  for  Paul  to  keep  up  his  con- 
nection with  the  house  of  Solomons  by  thus  associating 
from  time  to  time  with  Mr.  Lionel.  For  this  double-bar- 
reled purpose,  Mr.  Solomons  suggested  that  Paul  should 
take  rooms  in  the  same  house  with  Lionel,  and  that  they 
should  to  some  extent  share  expenses  together,  so  far  as 
breakfast,  lights,  and  firing  were  concerned.  From  which 
acute  suggestion  Mr.  Solomons  expected  a  double  advan- 
tage— as  L'le  wisdom  of  our  ancestors  has  proverbially 
phrased  it,  he  would  kill  two  birds  with  one  stone.  On  the 
one  hand,  Paul  and  Lionel  would  naturally  be  thrown  much 
into  one  another's  society,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  Lionel's 
living  expenses  would  be  considerably  diminished  by  Paul's 
co-operation. 

To  Paul  himself  the  arrangement  was  a  trifle  less  satis- 
factory. Mr.  Lionel  Solomons  was  hardly  the  sort  of  person 
he  would  have  spontaneously  chosen  as  the  friend  and 
companion  of  his  enforced  solitude.  Paul's  tastes  and 
ideas  had  undergone  a  considerable  modification  at  Oxford, 
and  he  was  well  aware  of  the  distinctions  of  tone  which 
marked  off  Mr.  Lionel  from  the  type  of  men  with  whom  he 
had  now  long  been  accustomed  to  associate.  But  still,  he 
never  dreamt  of  opposing  himself  in  this  matter  to  Mr. 


m 


*    i! 


i  lii-^' 


'  '-4 


'\y^'  II 


226 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


■f 


i  i. 


Solomons'  wishes.  The  habit  of  acquiescence  in  all  Mr. 
Solomons'  plans  for  the  future  had  been  so  impressed  upon 
his  mind  by  constant  use  that  he  could  hardly  throw  it  off 
in  a  month  or  two  ;  and  he  went  uncomplainingly,  if  not 
quite  cheerfully,  to  share  the  hospitality  of  Mr.  Lionel's 
rooms  in  a  small  back  street  off  a  Pimlico  highway. 

For  the  first  few  weeks  Paul  was  busy  enough,  endeavor- 
ing to  gain  himself  an  entry  into  the  world  of  journalism. 
And  by  great  good  luck  his  preliminary  efforts  were  unex- 
pectedly, and  it  must  be  confessed  unwontedly,  successful. 
As  a  rule,  it  is  only  by  long  and  strenuous  pushing  that 
even  good  workmen  succeed  in  making  their  way  into  that 
most  crowded  and  difficult  of  all  trades  or  professions. 
But  there  is  luck  in  everything,  even  in  journalism ;  and 
Paul  herein  was  exceptionally  lucky.  Mrs.  Douglas,  feel- 
ing herself  almost  personally  responsible  for  the  mishap  in 
Greats — for,  if  only  she  had  nobbled  the  examiners  in 
time,  might  she  not  have  managed  to  secure  for  him  at  least 
a  decent  Second — endeavored  to  make  up  for  her  remise; - 
ness  on  that  important  occasion  by  using  all  her  best  back- 
stairs wiles  and  blandishments  on  the  persons  of  all  the 
editors  and  leader  writers  of  her  wide  acquaintance.  Now 
the  London  press,  as  is  well  beknown  to  those  curious  in 
such  matters,  is  almost  entirely  manned  and  run  by  Oxford 
graduates.  Among  these  magnates  of  the  journalistic 
world  Mrs.  Douglai-  possessed  no  small  feminine  influence  ; 
her  dearest  friend  was  married  to  the  staff  of  the  Times^  and 
two  of  her  second  cousins  were  respectively  engaged  to  the 
French  politics  of  the  Planet  and  the  art-criticism  of  the 
hebdomadal  Correspondent.  By  dexterously  employing  her 
persuasive  powers  on  these  potent  ladies,  Mrs.  Douglas 
managed  to  secure  for  Paul's  maiden  efforts  the  difficult 
favor  of  editorial  consideration.  The  rest  Paul  worked  on 
his  own   account.     For  although,  as  his  first  editor   had 


AN  INTHODLXTION. 


227 


justly  remarked,  he  couldn't  write  wortli  a  kick  when  he 
began  his  experiments,  he  sat  down  so  resolutely  to  con- 
quer  the  intricacies  of  English  style,  that  before  three 
weeks  were  fairly  over  his  manuscript  made  as  decent 
copy  as  that  of  many  journalists  to  the  manner  born,  with 
less  brains  and  perception  than  the  young  Oxford  postulant. 

It  was  during  these  first  weeks  of  toilsome  apprentice- 
ship that  an  event  happened  of  great  importance  to  Paul's 
future  history,  though  at  the  moment  he  himself  saw  in  it 
nothing  more  than  the  most  casual  incident  of  everyday 
existence. 

One  Saturday  afternoon  Mr.  Lionel  returned  home  early 
from  the  city,  on  fashionable  promenade  intent,  and  pro- 
posed to  Paul  to  accompany  him  to  the  Park,  to  take  the 
air  and  inspect  the  marriageable  young  ladies  of  this  isle 
of  Britain  there  on  view  to  all  and  sundry.  "  Let's  have  a 
squint  at  the  girls,"  indeed,  was  Mr.  Lionel's  own  precise 
and  classical  suggestion  for  their  afternoon's  entertainment. 

For  a  moment  Paul  demurred.  "  I  want  to  get  this 
article  finished,"  he  said,  looking  up  from  his  paper  with 
a  rather  wearied  air.  "  I'm  trying  one  on  spec  for  the 
Monthly  Intelligence." 

*'  Rot !  "  Mr.  Lionel  ejaculated  with  profound  emphasis. 
"  You're  working  too  hard,  Gascoyne  ;  that's  just  the  mat- 
ter with  you.  We  don't  work  like  that  in  the  city,  I  can 
tell  you.  You're  muddling  your  brains  with  too  much 
writing.  Much  better  come  out  a  walk  with  me  this  after- 
noon, and  do  the  Park.  You  can't  expect  to  hook  an 
heiress,  you  know,  if  you  don't  let  the  heiresses  see  you  put 
yourself  in  evidence.  Besides  your  article'll  be  all  the 
better  for  a  little  freshening  up.  You're  getting  dull  for 
want  of  change.  Come  along  with  me  to  the  Row,  an  you'll 
see  what'll  stir  up  your  Pegasus  to  a  trot,  I'll  bet  you  four- 
pence."     Even   in  metaphor  fourpence  was  Mr.  Lionel's 


»i 


^ 


ii: 


1  I 


I  ! 


■'■  *l 


'■    ,iit=i 


aa8 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


extreme   extravagance   in   the   matter   of    risking    money 
needlessly. 

Paul  sighed  a  faint  sigh.  He  had  never  yet  dared  to 
confide  to  Mr.  Lionel  the  painful  aiinouncement  that  he 
was  no  longer  intent  on  the  prospective  pursuit  of  the 
British  heiress,  but  he  admitted  to  himself  the  justice  of 
the  other  plea  that  he  needed  change  ;  for,  indeed,  of  late 
he  had  been  sticking  a  great  deal  tt)o  close  to  the  litera- 
ture of  his  country.  So,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  he 
rose  from  his  desk,  and,  putting  off  his  working  coat, 
endued  himself  in  his  best  editor-visiting  clothes  for  the 
afternoon's  stroll,  and  sallied  forth  into  the  street  with  Mr. 
Lionel. 

As  they  went  toward  the  Park,  Mr.  Lionel  regaled  his 
fellow-lodger  with  various  amusing  anecdotes  of  Mr.  Solo- 
mons' cuteness,  and  of  the  care  with  which  he  audited  hir. 
nephew's  accounts,  paying  special  attention  to  the  item  of 
sundries  in  the  expenditure  column.  At  these  anecdotes 
Paul  was  somewhat  surprised,  for  Mr.  Solomons  had  always 
seemed  to  him  lavish  in  only  one  respect ;  and  that  was  on 
Mr.  Lionel's  personal  expenses.  He  had  fancied,  indeed — 
and  he  still  continued  to  fancy — that  Mr.  Solomons  spoilt 
his  nephew.  That  was  not  Mr.  Lionel's  own  opinion,  how- 
ever. He  descanted  much  upon  his  uncle's  "  closeness," 
and  upon  his  want  of  sympathy  with  a  fellow's  natural  wish 
to  "  see  life." 

"  Never  mind,  though,"  Mr.  Lionel  remarked  at  last,  with 
a  significant  gesture  of  his  protruding  lips.  "  The  two  old 
men'll  drop  off  before  long  ;  and  then,  Gascoyne,  you  and 
I  will  have  our  innings." 

•  Paul  was  shocked  at  the  heartless  levity  of  the  phrase, 
and,  indeed,  the  whole  point  of  view  was  one  entirely  for- 
eign to  him.  "  I  don't  feel  like  that  myself,"  he  said, 
drawing  back,  a  little  disgusted.     "  I  hope  my  father  will 


••I 


AN  IXTKOnCCT/Oy. 


229 


live  for  many  years  yet.  Aiul  I'm  sure  Mr.  Solomons  has 
alway.s  been  very  good  to  you." 

Mr.  Lionel's  face  broke  into  a  genial  smile.  "Come, 
come,"  he  said  frankly,  *'  none  of  that  humbug,  you  know. 
We're  alone,  and  I  aint  going  to  peach  on  you  to  the 
worthy  governor.  Don't  go  trying  to  talk  any  nonsense  to 
me,  for  it  don't  go  down.  You  must  want  to  succeed  to 
your  title,  naturally." 

Paul  hardly  even  liked  to  continue  the  discussion,  his 
companion's  tone  was  so  intensely  distasteful  to  him  ;  but  he 
felt  called  upon  to  dissent.  "  You're  mistaken,"  he  said 
curtly.  "  I'm  not  talking  humbug.  My  father  is  extremely 
near  and  dear  to  me.  And  as  to  the  baronetcy,  I  hate  the 
very  ide  i  of  it.  Had  it  rested  from  the  first  outset  with 
me  to  take  it  or  leave  it,  I  don't  think  I'd  ever  so  much  as 
have  even  claimed  it." 

"  Well,  you  arc  a  rum  chap  ! "  Mr.  Lionel  interjected, 
much  amused.  "  For  my  own  part,  you  know,  I'd  give  a 
thousand  pounds  down  to  have  such  prospects  as  you  have. 
And  it  won't  be  so  long  before  you  come  into  them,  either. 
The  old  man  drove  me  up  to  my  uncle's  the  last  time  I  was 
at  Hillborough,  and  I  thought  he  was  looking  precious 
shaky.  I  only  wish  my  own  respected  ancle  was  one-half 
as  near  popping  off  the  hooks  as  he  is.  But  that's  the  worst 
of  my  old  boy.  He's  a  tough  sort,  he  is  :  belongs  to  the 
kind  that  goes  on  living  forever.  The  doctors  say  there's 
something  the  matter  with  his  heart,  to  be  sure,  and  that  he 
mustn't  excite  himself.  But,  bless  your  soul !  the  stingy  old 
beggar's  too  cunning  to  excite  himself.  He'll  live  till  he's 
ninety,  I  verily  believe,  just  on  purpose  to  stick  to  his  tin 
and  spite  me.  And  I,  who'd  make  so  much  better  a  use  of 
the  money  than  he  does — I'll  be  turned  sixty,  1  expect,  be- 
fore ever  1  come  into  it." 

Paul  was  too  disgusted  even  to  answer.     His  own  obliga- 


L 


m 


'II 


,.■■*■  ••  .1 


:  I' 


(30 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


"II 


\  fi= 


V  %  II! 


T' 


tioiis  to  Mr.  Solomons,  if  any,  were  far  less  in  every  way 
than  Mr.  Lionel's;  but  he  couldn't  have  endured  so  to 
speak  or  think  of  any  man  to  whom  he  owed  the  very  sUglit- 
est  gratitude. 

They  went  on  into  the  Park  with  more  or  less  of  conver- 
sation, and  strolled  up  and  down  the  Kow  for  some  time, 
Mr.  Lionel,  with  a  flower  gaily  stuck  in  his  button-hole  and  a 
cane  poised  gracefully  in  his  lemon-gloved  hand,  staring 
hard  into  the  face  of  every  girl  he  passed,  and  Paul  half- 
regretting  in  his  own  soul  he  had  consented  to  come  out 
before  the  eyes  of  the  town  in  such  uncongenial  company. 
At  last,  as  they  neared  the  thronged  corner  by  Hyde  Park 
(iate,  Paul  was  roused  from  a  reverie  into  which  he  had 
momentarily  fallen  by  hearing  a  familiar  voice  at  his  side 
fall  musically  on  his  ear,  exclaiming  with  an  almost  imper- 
ceptible foreign  accent,  *•  What  !  you  here,  Mr.  Gascoyne  ? 
How  charming  !  How  delightful  !  " 

The  heir  to  the  baronetcy  turned  quickly  lound,  and  be- 
held on  a  chair  in  the  well-dressed  crowd  the  perennial 
charms  of  little  Mme.  Ceriolo. 

She  looked  younger  and  prettier  even  than  she  had  looked 
at  Mentone.  Mme.  Ceriolo  made  a  point,  in  fact,  of 
looking  always  her  youngest  and  prettiest  in  London — for 
hers  was  the  beauty  which  is  well  under  the  control  of  its 
skillful  possessor.  To  be  pretty  in  London  may  pay  any 
day.  A  great  city  incloses  such  endless  possibilities.  And 
indeed,  there,  among  the  crowd  of  unknown  faces,  where 
he  felt  acutely  all  the  friendless  loneliness  of  the  stranger 
in  a  vast  metropolis,  Paul  was  really  quite  pleased  to  see 
the  features  of  the  good-humored  little  adventuress.  He 
shook  hands  with  her  warmly  in  the  innocence  of  his  heart, 
and  stopped  a  moment  to  exchange  reminiscences.  Mme. 
Ceriolo's  face  lighted  up  at  once  (through  the  pearl  powder) 
with  genuine  pleasure.     This  was  business,  indeed.    She 


I*  I 


A^  IXTROnVCTlOX. 


«J» 


saw  she  had  made  a  momentary  C(>iu)iicst  of  Taul,  and  she 
tried  her  best  to  follow  it  up,  in  order,  if  possihle,  to  insure 
its  permanence.  For  a  British  baronet,  mark  yon,  is  never 
to  be  despised,  above  all  by  those  who  have  special  need  of 
a  guarantee  passport  to  polite  society. 

"So  I  have  to  conj^ratnlate  you,"  she  said  archly,  beam- 
ing on  him  through  her  glasses,  "upon  securing  the  little 
American  heiress.  Ah,  you  thought  I  didn't  know  ;  but  a 
little  bird  told  me.  And,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  felt  sure 
of  it  myself  the  moment  I  saw  you  with  her  on  the  hills  at 
Mentone." 

Paul,  glancing  round  with  burning  cheeks,  would  have 
given  anything  that  minute  to  sink  into  the  ground.  'I'here, 
before  the  face  of  assembled  London  !  and  the  people  on 
all  the  neighboring  chairs  just  craning  their  necks  to  catch 
the  smallest  fragments  of  their  conversation. 

"  I — I  don't  quite  understand,"  he  stammered  out  ner- 
vously. 

*'  Oh,  yes,"  Mme.  Ceriolo  went  on,  as  cool  as  a  cucum- 
ber and  still  smiling  benignly.  "She'd  made  up  her  mind 
to  be  Lady  Gascoyne,  1  know,  or  to  perish  in  the  attempt ; 
and  now,  we  hear,  she's  really  succeeded." 

As  she  spoke,  Mme,  Ceriolo  cast  furtive  eyes  to  right 
and  left  to  see  whether  all  her  neighbors  duly  observed  the 
fact  that  she  was  talking  to  a  prospective  man  of  title.  At 
that  open  acknowledgment  of  Paul's  supposed  exalted  place 
in  the  world  the  necks  of  the  audience  craned  still  more 
violently.  A  young  man  of  rank,  then,  in  the  open  marriage 
market,  believed  to  have  secured  a  wealthy  American 
lady! 

"  You're  mistaken,"  Paul  answered,  speaking  rather  low 
and  trembling  with  mortification.  "  I  am  not  engaged  to 
Miss  Boyton  at  all."  Then  he  hesitated  for  a  second,  and, 
after  a  brief  pause,  in  spite  of  Mr.  Lionel's  presence  (as 


m^ 


^11 


I  ' 


.•* '  1 


f  d 


3J3 


THE  SCALLYWAG. 


>|it 


i>  li 


witness  for  Mr.  Solomons  to  so  barpf.irecl  a  dereliction  of 
tliily)  he  addrd  the  furllicr  incriniiiiatiiig  clause,  •'  And  I 
don't  mean  to  be." 

'I'he  interest  of  the  bystanders  reached  its  hiyfhest  pitch. 
It  was  as  ^ood  as  a  paragraph  in  a  society  paper.  The 
young  man  of  title  disclaimed  th'*  hand  of  the  American 
heiress  ! 

♦'  Hut  Mr.  Armitage  told  me  so,"  Mme.  Ceriolo  retorted, 
with  womanly  persistence. 

"Mr.  Armitage  is  hardly  likely  to  be  so  well  informed  on 
the  point  as  I  am  myself,"  Paul  answered,  flushing  red. 

"  Why,  it  was  Miss  Hoyton  herself  who  assured  him  of 
the  fact,"  Mme.  Ceriolo  went  on,  triumphant.  "And  I 
suppose  Miss  Hoyton  ought  at  least  to  know  about  her 
own  engagement." 

♦*  You're  mistaken,"  Paul  answered,  lifting  his  hat  curtly 
and  moving  off  at  once  to  cut  short  the  painful  colloquy. 
And  the  bystanders,  whispering  low  behind  tiieir  hands 
and  fans  to  one  another,  opined  there  would  soon  be  a  sen- 
sation for  society  in  the  shape  of  another  aristocratic  breach- 
of  promise  case. 

As  they  mingled  in  the  crowd  once  more,  Mr.  Lionel, 
turning  to  his  companion,  exclaimed  with  very  marked 
approbation,  '•  That's  a  devilish  fine  womi^n,  anyhow,  Gas- 
coy  ne.     Who  the  dickens  is  she  ?  " 

Paul  explained  in  a  few  words  what  little  he  knew  about 
Mme.  Ceriolo's  position  and  antecedents. 

"  I  like  that  woman,"  Mr.  Lionel  went  on,  with  the  air  of 
a  connoisseur  in  female  beauty.  *  She's  got  fine  eyes,  by 
Jove,  and  I'm  death  on  eyes.  And  then  her  complexion  ! 
Why  didn't  you  introduce  me  ?  I  should  like  to  cultivate 
her." 

"  I'll  introduce  you  if  we  pass  her  again,"  Paul  answered, 
preoccupied.     He  was  wondering  in  his  own  mind  what  Mr. 


/T.V   fXTKO/WrilOX. 


>33 


Lionel  would  think  of  this  awful  resolution  of  his  about  the 
American  luMiess. 

I'or  the  inonient,  however,  Mr.  Lionel,  intent  on  his  own 
thoughts,  was  wholly  absorbed  in  his  private  adniir.ilion  of 
Mme.  ('criolo's  well-ileveloped  charms.  ••  As  line  lookinj{ 
a  young  woman  as  I've  sern  for  a  fortinghl,"  he  went  on 
meilitalively.  '•  And  did  you  notice,  too,  how  very  hard  she 
looked  at  me  ?  " 

"  No,  I  didn't,"  Taul  answered,  just  stilling  a  faint  smile 
of  contempt  ;  "  but,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  think  she'il  look 
hard  at  anybody  upon  earth  who  looked  hard  at  her.  And 
she's  scarcely  young.  She's  not  far  off  forty,  if  anything,  I 
fancy."  (At  twenty-two,  as  we  all  know,  forty  seems  quite 
mediaeval.) 

**  Let's  go  back  and  pass  her  again,"  Lionel  exclaimed 
with  effusion,  turning  round  once  more.  "" 

Paul  shrank  from  the  ordeal  of  facing  those  craning 
bystanders  a  second  time  ;  but  he  hail  n't  the  courage  to 
say  no  to  his  impetuous  companion.  Mr.  Lionel's  enti.  i- 
asm  was  too  torrential  to  withstand.  So  they  threaded  their 
way  back  among  the  crowd  of  loungers. 

Fortunately,  by  this  time,  Mme.  Ceriolo  had  risen  from 
her  seat,  after  taking  her  full  pennyworth,  and  was  walking 
briskly  and  youthfully  toward  them.  She  met  them  once 
more — not  quite  undesignedly  either — with  a  sweet  smile  of 
welcome  on  those  cherry  lips  of  hers.  (You  buy  the  stuff 
for  ten  mOus  a  stick  at  any  coiffeur's  in  the  Palais  Royal.) 

'•  My  friei'd  was  anxious  to  make  your  acquaintance," 
Paul  said,  introducing  him,  "  Mr.  Lionel  Solomons — 
Mme.  Ceriolo." 

*'  Not  a  son  of  Sir  Saul  Solomons  ?"  Mme.  Ceriolo  ex- 
claimed, inventing  the  existence  of  that  eponymous  hero 
on  the  spot  with  ready  cleverness  to  flatter  her  new  acquaint- 
ance's obvious  snobbery. 


^«. 


*  »j| 


234 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


I  lit 


ill 


\    I'! 


hI 


"  No,  not  a  son,"  Mr.  Lionel  answered  airily,  rising  to  the 
fly  at  once  ;  **but  we  belong,  I  believe,  to  the  same  family." 
Which,  if  Sir  Saul  Solomons  had  possessed  any  objective 
reality  at  all,  would,  no  doubt,  ip  a  certain  broad  sense, 
have  been  about  as  true  as  mos^  other  such  claims  to  dis- 
tinguished relationship. 

Mme.  Ceriolo  measured  her  man  accurately  on  the 
spot.  "  Ah,  that  dear  Sir  Saul,"  she  said,  with  a  gentle 
sigh.  "  He  was  so  good,  so  clever  ;  I  was  always  so  fond 
of  him  !  And  you're  like  him,  too !  The  same  profile  ! 
The  same  features  !  The  same  dark  eyes  and  large  full- 
browed  forehead  !  "  This  was  doubtless,  also,  in  an  ethical 
sense,  strictly  correct ;  for  Mr.  Lionel's  personal  charac- 
teristics were  simply  those  of  the  ancient  and  respected 
race  to  whom  he  ov  od  his  existence,  and  of  which,  appar- 
ently,  <^he  hypothetical  Sir  Saul  was  likewise  a  bright  and 
shining  example. 

"  May  we  v/alk  your  way  ?  "  Mr.  Lionel  said,  gallantly 
ogling  his  fair  companion. 

Mme.  Ceriolo  was  always  professionally  amiable.  She 
accorded  that  permission  with  her  most  marked  amiability. 

They  walked  and  talked  for  half  an  hour  in  the  Park. 
Then  Paul  got  tired  of  his  subordinate  part,  and  strolled 
off  by  himself  obligingly.  Mr.  l>ionel  waited,  and  had  ten 
minutes  alone  with  his  new-found  charmer. 

"  Then  I  may  really  come  and  call  upon  you  ?  "  he  asked 
at  last  in  a  melting  tone,  as  he  grasped  her  hand — some- 
what hard — at  parting. 

Mme.  Ceriolo's  eyes  darted  a  glance  into  his  that 
might  have  intoxicated  a  far  stronger  man  than  Lionel 
Solomons.  "There's  my  card,"  she  said,  wi'h  ^  gracious 
smile,  producing  the  famous  pasteboard  with  the  countess' 
coronet  stamped  on  it  in  relief.  "  A  humble  hotel — but  I 
like  it  myself,  because  it  n^Tiinds  me  of  my  beloved  Tyrol, 


Vi  !if ' 


THE    WILES  OF   THE   STRANGE    WOMAN. 


235 


Whenever  you  like,  Mr.  Solomons,  you  may  drop  in  to  see 
me.  Any  relation  of  that  admirable  Sir  Saul,  I  need  hardly 
say,  is  always  welcome." 

Mr.  Lionel  went  home  to  his  rooms  in  Pimlico  that  after- 
noon half  an  inch  taller — which  would  make  him  fully  five 
feet  six  in  his  high-heeled  walking  shoes  on  a  modest 
computation. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 


S\ 


th't;  wiles  of  the  strange  woman. 


ed 
ten 


;ss 


"ZifiBiE,"  Mme.  Ceriolo  cried  in  a  shrill  voice  to  the  maid- 
in- waiting,  'I/if  ne  re^oispas  aujourd" huiy  entends-tu,  imbi'cile  ?  " 

Mile.  Eus^bie,  more  shortly  known  to  her  intimates  as 
Zebie,  was  \\i^  fille  de  chambre  and  general  upstairs  factotum 
of  the  Hotel  de  I'Univers,  in  Clandon  Street,  Soho,  Mme. 
Ceriolo  preferred  that  modest  hostelry  to  the  more  usual 
plan  of  West  End  lodging  ;  partly,  to  be  sure,  because  it 
helped  to  keep  up  the  partial  fiction  of  her  noble  birth  and 
Tyrolese  ancestry,  but  partly  also  because  it  lent  itself 
more  readily  to  practical  Bohemianism  than  do  the  strait- 
laced  apartments  of  Notting  Hill  or  Bayswater.  In  Clan- 
don  Street,  Soho,  one  can  live  as  one  chooses,  no  man 
hindering  ;  and  Mme,  Ceriolo  chose  to  live  h  la  Zingari. 
*^  On y  est  si  bien"  iht  said  with  a  delicate  shrug  of  those 
shapely  shoulders  to  her  respectable  acquaintances  when 
she  was  doing  propriety  ;  "  and  besides,  the  landlord,  you 
know,  is  one  of  my  poor  compatriots.  I  take  such  an 
interest  in  his  wife  and  children,  in  this  foggy  London,  so 
far  from  the  fresh  breeze  of  our  beloved  mountains."  For 
Mme.  Ceriolo  was  strong  on  the  point  of  sensibility,  and 
sighed  (in  public)  for  her  native  pine-clad  valleys. 

"  And  if  Mr.  Armitage  calls  ?  "  Zebie  asked  inquiringly. 


I%r 


236 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


li  i^'l 


"  I  am  not  to  deny  madame,  I  suppose,  at  least  to  Mr. 
Armitage." 

"  Zebie,"  Mme.  Ceriolo  exclaimed,  looking  up  at  her 
sharply,  *'  tu  es  (Tune  inconvcnance — mais  d'utie  inconvenance  ! '  * 
Madame  paused  and  reflected.  "  Well  no,"  she  went  on, 
after  a  brief  mental  calculation.  ^'  I'm  not  at  home,  even 
to  Mr.  Armitage." 

•*  TienSy"  Zebie  answered  ;  "  c'esf  drdle.  Et  cepen- 
dant " 

"  Wait,"  Mme.  Ceriolo  continued,  reflecting  profoundly, 
**  There  is  yet  one  thing.  If  an  ugly  little  Jew  calls" — 
and  madame  swept  her  finger  rapidly  through  the  air  in 
burlesque  representation  of  Mr.  Lionel's  well-marked  pro- 
file— **  nose  so,  lips  so,  bulging  curly  hair,  forehead,  odor 
of  hair  oil — gives  his  name,  I  fancy,  as  Mr.  Lionel  Solo- 
mons  " 

"  Well,  madame  ? "  Z^bie  repeated  dutifully,  with  her 
hand  on  the  door-edge. 

"  If  he  calls,"  madame  went  on,  gathering  her  robe 
around  her,  "  you  may  tell  him  I'm  indisposed — a  slight 
indisposition,  and  will  see  nobody.  But  say  to  him,  after  a 
while,  with  ever  so  little  hesitation,  you'll  take  up  his  card 
and  inquire  if  I  can  receive  him.  And,  then,  you  may  show 
him  meanwhile  into  the  salon.  That'll  give  me  time,  of 
course,  to  change  my  peignoir." 

It  was  four  o'clock  gone,  in  the  afternoon,  a  few  days 
later  than  their  meeting  in  the  Park  ;  and  madame,  who 
had  been  up  late  to  a  little  supper  the  evening  before,  was 
still  in  the  intimacy  of  dressing  gown  and  curl  papers. 

*■'■  Parfaitement,  Madame''  Zebie  responded  cheerfully,  in 
the  tone  of  one  well  accustomed  to  receiving  such  delicate 
orders,  and  left  the  room  ;  while  madame  lounged  back  on 
the  sofa  of  her  little  sitting  room,  and  glanced  lazily  over 
the  feiiilleton  of  yesterday's  Figaro, 


THE    WILES  OF    THE   STRANGE    WOMAN. 


237 


I 


The  hotel  was  of  the  usual  London- French  type — a 
dingy,  uncomfortable,  dead-alive  little  place — mean  and 
dear,  yet  madame  liked  it.  She  could  receive  her  callers 
and  smoke  her  cigarettes  here  without  attracting  attention. 
She  was  rolling  a  bit  of  rice-paper,  in  fact,  with  practiced 
skill  between  those  dainty  plump  fingers  ten  minutes  later, 
when  Zebie  reappeared  at  the  door  once  more,  with  a  card 
in  her  hand,  and  a  smile  on  her  saucy  Parisian  features. 
"  The  monsieur  madame  expected,"  she  said  ;  "  he  attends 
you  in  the  salon.'' 

Madame  jumped  up,  and  roused  herself  at  once.  "  My 
blue  gown,  Zebie,"  she  cried.  *'  No,  not  that,  stupid.  Yes, 
that's  the  one,  with  the  pleats  In  front.  Now,  just  give  me 
time  to  slip  myself  into  it,  and  to  comb  out  my  fringe,  and 
touch  up  my  cheeks  a  bit,  and  then  you  may  bring  the 
flamin  up  to  me.  Poor  little  imbecile  !  Tell  him  I'm  in 
bed,  and  meant  to  receive  nobody — but  hearing  it  was  him, 
in  spite  of  my  migraine,  I  decided  to  make  an  effort  and 
raise  myself." 

"  Parfaitement,  Madame,''  Zebie  echoed  once  more,  with 
ready  acquiescence,  and  disappeared  dowi;  ihe  stairs  to  de- 
liver her  message. 

"So  it's  you,  Mr.  Solomons,"  madame  cried,  looking  up 
from  the  sofa,  where  she  lay  in  her  shawls  and  her  becom- 
ing tea-gown,  with  a  hasty  lace-wrap  flung  coqucttishly 
round  her  pearl-white  neck,  as  Mr.  Lionel  entered.  "  How 
very  good  of  you  to  come  and  look  me  up  so  soon.  Nuvv 
admit,  monsieur,  that  I  am  not  ungrateful.  I  was  nl  in 
bed  when  my  maid  brought  me  up  your  card  just  now,  and 
for  nobody  else  in  the  world  would  I  have  thought  of 
stirrir.g  myself.  But  when  I  heard  it  was  you  " — she  gave 
him.  a  killing  glance  from  beneath  those  penciled  lashes — 
"I  said  to  Eusebie,  '  Just  hand  me  the  very  first  dress  you 
can  come  across  in  my  wardrobe,  and  tell  the  gentleman 


W 


^% 


\\ 


•.-<^;'. 


'^i 


B^H 


238 


THE  SCALLYWAG. 


I'll  see  him  directly.'  And  so  up  I  got,  and  here  I  am  ; 
and  now  I'm  sure  you'll  excuse  my  lighting  a  wee  little 
cigarette,  just  a  cigarette  of  my  own  rolling,  because  I've 
made  my  poor  fluttering  heart  beat  so  with  the  exertion." 

Mr.  Lionel  would  have  excused  a  hundred  cigarettes,  .so 
enchanted  was  he  with  this  gracious  reception.  In  fact  he 
admitted  to  a  weakness  for  the  fragrant  Latakia  himself, 
and  in  two  minutes  more  he  was  acti;ally  inhaling  thebrea  i: 
of  one,  deftly  manufactured  for  his  special  use  by  Mme. 
Ceriolo's  own  cunning  fingers. 

Mme.  Ceriolo  twisted  him  as  she  twisted  the  cig- 
arettes. He  sat  there,  intoxicated  with  her  charms,  for 
more  than  an  hour,  in  the  course  of  which  time  the  little 
woman,  by  dexterous  side-pressure,  had  pumped  him  of 
all  he  knew  or  thought  far  more  effectually  than  even 
Armitage  himself  could  have  done  it.  She  handled  him 
gingerly  with  infinite  skill.  "  No,  you're  not  in  the  City  !" 
she  exclaimed  once,  with  well  assumed  surprise,  when 
Mr.  Lionel  happened  incidentally  to  allude  to  the  nature 
of  his  own  accustomed  pursuits.  "  You're  trying  to  take 
me  in.  You  don't  mean  to  wll  me  you're  really  in  the 
City?" 

"  Why  not  ?  "  Mr.  Lionel  asked,  with  a  flush  of  pride. 

"  Oh,  you're  not  in  the  very  least  like  a  city  man," 
Mme.  Ceriolo  replied,  looking  up  at  him  arcli'.y.  "  Why,  I 
thought  from  your  manners  you  were  one  of  the  people  who 
pass  their  lives  dawdling  between  their  club  and  the  Row. 
I  never  should  have  believed  you  could  possibly  be  in  the 
city.  What  is  your  club,  by  the  way  ?  "  she  added  with  an 
afterthought,  "  in  case  I  should  ever  want  to  write  to 
you." 

Mr.  Lionel's  lips  trembled  with  pleasure.  "  I'm  down 
for  the  Garrick,"  he  said  (which  was,  in  point  of  fact,  an 
inexact  remark)  ;  "  but  until  I  get  in  there,  you  know — it's 


i" 


THE    WILES  OF  THE   STRANGE    WOMAN. 


239 


such  a  long  job  nowadays — I  hang  out  for  the  present  at 
the  Junior  Financial.  It's  a  small  place  in  Uuke  Street,  St. 
James'.  If  ever  you  should  do  me  the  honor  to  write  to 
me,  though,  I  think  you'd  better  write  to  my  chambers  in 
Pimlico."  He  called  them  *'  chambers  "  instead  of  lodg- 
ings, because  it  sounded  more  swell  and  rakish.  And  he 
produced  a  card  with  his  name  and  address  on  it. 

.vlme.  Ceriolo  placed  it  with  marked  care  in  an  inner 
compartment  of  her  pretty  little  tortoiseshell  purse — the 
purse  vvith  the  coronet  and  initials  on  the  case,  which  had 
been  given  her  in  Paris  by — well,  never  mind  those  forgot- 
ten little  episodes.  "  And  so  you  live  with  Mr.  Gascoyne  !  " 
she  said,  noting  the  address.  "Dear  Mr.  Gascoyne!  so 
quaint,  so  original  !  Though  we  all  laughed  at  him,  we  all 
liked  him.  He  was  the  life  and  soul  of  our  party  at  Men- 
tone." 

"  Well,  I  live  with  him  only  because  I  find  it  convenient," 
Mr.  Lionel  interposed.  "  He's  not  exactly  the  sort  of  chap 
I  should  take  to  naturally." 

Mme.  Ceriolo  caught  at  her  cue  at  once.  "  I  should  think 
not,"  she  echoed.  "  A  deal  too  slow  for  youy  one  can  see 
that  at  a  glance.  A  very  good  fellow  in  his  way,  of  course  ; 
but,  oh  my  !  so  strait-laced,  so  absurdly  puritanical."  And 
she  laughed  melodiously. 

"  And  how  about  the  American  heiress  you  spoke  of  in 
the  Park  ?  "  Mr.  Lionel  inquired  with  professional  eager- 
ness. 

"  Oh,  that  was  all  chaff,"  Mme.  Ceriolo  answered,  after 
an  imperceptible  pause,  to  gain  time  for  her  invention.  She 
was  a  good-natured  little  swindler,  after  all,  was  Mme. 
Ceriolo  ;  and,  from  the  way  he  asked  it,  she  jumped  to  the 
conclusion  he  wanted  the  information  for  no  friendly  pur- 
pose,  so  she  withheld  it  sternly.  Why  should  she  want  to 
do  a  bad  turn  to  the  poor  little  scallywag  ? 


240 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


So  the  conversation  glided  off  upon  Paul,  his  Quixotic 
ideas  and  his  moral  absurdities  ;  and,  before  it  had  ended, 
the  simple  minded  young  cynic,  like  clay  in  the  hands  of 
the  easy-going  but  cunning  adventuress,  had  told  her  all 
about  Mr.  Solomons  and  himself,  and  the  plan  for  exploit- 
ing the  British  baronet,  and  the  confounded  time  an  uncle 
always  contrived  to  live,  and  the  difficulty  of  extracting 
blood  from  a  stone,  and  the  trials  and  troubles  of  the  genus 
nephew  in  its  endeavor  to  perform  that  arduous  surgical 
operation.  To  all  of  which  Mme.  Ceriolo,  feeling  her  way 
with  caution  by  tentative  steps,  had  extended  a  ready  and 
sympathetic  ear,  and  had  made  a  rapid  mental  note,  "  Bad 
heart,  weak  head,  good  material  to  work  upon — fool,  vain, 
impressionable,  unscrupulous."  Such  men  as  that  were 
madame's  stock-in-trade.  She  battened  on  their  money, 
sucked  them  dry  as  fast  as  she  could,  and  then  left 
them. 

Not  that  madame  was  ever  what  British  respectability  in 
its  exactest  sense  describes  as  disreputable.  The  wise 
adventuress  knew  a  more  excellent  way  than  that.  Never 
throw  away  the  essentials  of  a  good  name.  She  traded 
entirely  upon  promises  and  expectations.  Her  method 
was  to  make  a  man  head  over  ears  in  love,  and  then  fco 
delude  him  into  the  fallacious  belief  that  she  meant  to 
marry  him.  As  soon  as  he  was  reduced  to  the  flaccid  con- 
dition, by  constant  draining,  she  retired  gracefully.  Some 
day,  when  she  found  a  man  rich  enough  and  endurable 
enough,  she  intended  to  carry  the  programme  of  marriage 
into  execution  and  end  her  days  in  the  odor  of  respecta- 
bility. But  that  was  for  the  remote  future,  no  doubt. 
Meanwhile,  she  was  content  to  take  what  she  could  get  by 
her  drainage  operations,  and  live  her  own  Bohemian  life 
untrammeled. 

At  last,  most  unwillingly,  Mr.   Lionel  rose  and  took  up 


THE    Wll.ES  OF   THE   STkAXGE    ll'O.U.hV. 


241 


his  hat  to  go.  "  I  may  come  again  soon?'*  he  said  inter- 
rogatively. 

Madamc's  professional  amiability  never  forsook  her  in 
similar  circumstances.  "As  often  as  you  like,"  she 
answered,  smiling  a  benign  smile  upon  the  captured  victim  ; 
•'  I'm  always  glad  to  see  nice  people  ;  except  on  Fridays," 
she  added  after  a  pause.  Friday  was  the  day  when  Armi- 
tage  most  often  called,  and  she  didn't  wish  to  let  her  two 
principal  visitors  clash  unnecessarily. 

At  the  door  Mr.  Lionel  pressed  her  hand  with  a  tender 
squeeze.  Mme.  Ceriolo  returned  the  pressure  with  a 
demure  and  well-calculated  diminution  of  intensity.  It 
doesn't  do  to  let  them  think  they  can  make  the  running  too 
fast  or  too  easily.  Draw  them  "^n  by  degrees  and  they 
stick  the  longer.  Mr.  Lionel  gazed  into  those  languid  eyes 
of  hers.  Mme.  Ceriolo  dropped  the  lids  with  most  maid- 
enly modesty.  **  Don't  mention  to  Mr.  Gascoyne,"  she 
murmured,  withdrawing  her  hand,  which  I^ionel  showed  a 
tendency  to  hold  too  long,  "  that  you've  been  here  this 
afternoon,  I  beg  of  you  as  a  favor." 

"How  curious  !  "  her  new  admirer  exclaimed  with  sur- 
prise. "  Why,  /  was  just  going  to  ask  you  not  to  say  any- 
thing to  him  for  worlds  about  it." 

"  Sympathy,"  Mme.  -Ceriolo  murmured.  "  The  com- 
mon brain-wave.  When  people  are  cast  in  corresponding 
molds  these  curious  things  often  happen  pat,  just  so. 
Figtirez-vous  si  je  siiis  sympathiquey  And  she  took  his  hand 
once  more  and  let  it  drop  suddenly  ;  then  she  turned  and 
fled,  like  a  girl,  to  the  sofa,  as  if  half  ashamed  of  her  own 
unwise  emotion. 

Mr.  Lionel  went  down  the  stairs  in  the  seventh  heaven. 
At  last  he  had  found  a  beautiful  woman  really  to  admire 
him.  She  saw  his  good  points  and  appreciated  him  at  once 
at  his  full  worth.     Forty  ?    What  malevolent,  ill-natured 


m^^ 


)'f' 


343 


THE  SCALLYWAG. 


nonsense.  Not  a  day  more  than  twenty-seven,  he'd  be 
bound  on  affidavit.  And  then,  what  mattered  the  disparity 
of  age?  Such  grace,  such  knowledge  of  the  world  and 
society,  such  noble  birth,  such  a  countess'  coronet  em- 
broidered  on  her  handkerchief. 

•*  Zebie,"  madame  cried  from  her  sofa  in  the  corner,  as 
that  well-trained  domestic  answered  her  double  ring 
i^''  sonnez  deux  fois  pour  la  fille  Jc  c/uvnhre'') — while  Lionel's 
footfall  still  echoed  on  the  stair,  *'  if  that  little  fool  of  a  Jew 
calls  again  you  can  show  him  up  straight  off  at  any  time. 
Do  you  understand,  idiot  ?  at  any  time — unless  Mr.  Armi- 
tage  is  here  already." 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 


THE  BARONETCY  IN  THE  BALANCE. 

Summer  and  autumn  Paul  worked  away,  very  much  up- 
hill, at  journalism  in  London,  pushing  h"  road  ahead  slowly 
but  surely  into  steady  occupation,  and  not  only  covering  all 
his  modest  expenses,  but  even  laying  by  a  trifle  at  odd 
times  toward  wiping  out  those  terrible  claims  of  Mr.  Solo- 
mons. 

It  was  hard  work  and  uphill  work,  undeniably.  No  mat- 
ter how  good  a  start  a  man  may  get  in  literature — and, 
thanks  to  indefatigable  Mis.  Douglas,  with  her  backstairs 
instinct,  Paul's  start  had  been  an  unusually  easy  one — the 
profession  of  letters  must  needs  be  an  arduous  craft  for 
every  beginner.  The  doors  are  crowded  ;  the  apprentice- 
ship is  long,  toilsome,  and  ill-paid.  Paul  had  to  endure 
that  painful  fate,  common  to  all  of  us  who  earn  our  bread 
by  spinning  material  out  of  our  own  brains  for  public  con- 
sumption, of  seeing  manuscript  after  manuscript  "  declined 
with  thanks,"  and  of  laboring  for  hours  and  hours  together 


THE  BAROXETCY  IX   THE   BALANCE, 


243 


% 


on  that  which,  after  all,  profited  nothing.  Nevertiieless,  u 
certain  proportion  of  his  work  was  accepieil  and  paid  for  ; 
and  that  proportion  brought  him  enough  to  pi:y  for  his  half 
of  the  rooms  he  shared  with  his  uncongenial  fcUow-lodger, 
and  to  keep  him  in  food,  clothing,  and  washing.  It  was  a 
great  joy  to  him  when  he  began  to  find  his  weekly  receipts 
outbalance  expenditure,  and  to  lay  by,  were  it  only  a  few 
shillings  at  a  time,  toward  the  final  extinguishment  of  hir* 
debt  to  Mr.  Solomons. 

Had  it  been  the  national  debt  of  England  that  ho  had 
to  wipe  out,  it  could  not  have  seemed  to  him  at  the  time 
much  more  hopeless  of  accomplishment,  But  still  he  toiled 
on,  determined  at  least  to  do  his  best  by  it — with  Nea  in 
the  background  watching  over  him  from  a  distance. 

Summer  and  autumn  passed  away,  and  at  Christmas, 
when  Faith  was  freed  once  more  from  the  tyranny  of  the 
infant.s,  and  business  was  slack  in  London  offices,  he  deter- 
mined to  run  down  for  a  week  or  two's  rest  and  change  to 
Hillborough.  But  he  must  pay  for  his  board  and  lodging, 
he  told  his  mother  ;  he  was  a  free  man  now,  earning  his 
own  livelihood,  and  he  must  no  longer  be  a  burden  to  his 
family  in  any  way.  With  many  remonstrances,  he  was  at 
last  allowed  to  have  his  wish,  and  to  contribute  the  modest 
sum  of  fifteen  shillings  a  week,  in  return  for  his  keep,  to 
the  exchequer. 

He  had  only  been  home  one  day  when  Faith  took  him 
for  their  favorite  walk  on  the  Knoll,  and  confided  to  him 
all  her  most  recent  family  observations. 

"  Do  you  notice  any  difference  in  father,  Paul  ? "  she 
asked  a  little  anxiously,  as  they  walked  along  the  springy 
turf  on  that  long  ridge,  looking  down  upon  the  wide  weald, 
in  the  beautiful  bright  December  morning. 

Paul  hesitated  to  answer.  "  Well,  Lionel  Solomons  said 
to  me  in  the   summer,"  he   replied   at   last,  after  a  long 


%. 


<    ! 


'  '*'*'  ii 


244 


run  SCI  1. 1,  y WAG, 


\ 


i! 

1 1 


"I 

1  ■ 


pause,  •'that  he  was  getting  shaky,  ami  that  made  me 
nervous  ;  so  I've  been  watching  him  close  yesterday  and 
to-day,  and,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I'm  afraid,  Faith,  he  isn't 
quite  as  strong  on  his  legs  as  he  used  to  be." 

Faith's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  To  her  and  to  I'aul,  it 
was  nothing  that  their  father  s  "h's  "  were  weak  or  non- 
existent and  that  their  father's  grammar  was  deficient  in 
concords.  They. loved  him  as  dearly  as  if  he  had  been  a 
lily-handed  baronet  of  many  broad  acres,  with  courtly 
manners  and  an  elegant  drawl,  but  possessing  no  final 
♦*g's  "  to  his  name,  and  hardly  a  trace  of  the  letter  "  r "  to 
speak  of.  To  say  the  truth,  they  loved  him  even  much 
better.  They  realized  how  hard  he  had  worked  all  his 
days  to  keep  them,  and  how,  according  to  his  light,  feeble 
and  flickering  enough,  he  had  tried  to  do  the  very  best  in 
life  for  them.  He  had  always  been  a  kind  and  indulgent 
father;  and  the  bare  thought  of  losing  him  was  to  Faith 
and  to  Paul  a  terrible  source  of  coming  trouble. 

"  His  life's  so  hard,"  Faith  murmured  through  her  rising 
tears.  "  At  his  age,  he  oughtn't  to  have  to  be  driving  about 
all  day  or  all  night  in  the  rain  and  the  cold.  He  isn't 
strong  enough  for  it  now — I'm  sure  he  isn't,  Paul — and  it 
makes  my  heart  bleed  to  see  how  he  has  to  go  and  do  it." 

"  The  fact  is,"  Paul  answered,  "  a  man  in  his  position 
ought  to  have  a  son  who  can  fill  his  place,  and  take  the 
heaviest  work,  at  least,  off  his  shoulders.  If  dear  father'd 
done  what  he  ought  to  have  done  with  me,  I  really  believe 
he'd  have  brought  me  up  to  his  own  trade,  and  to  carry  on 
the  business  now  he  isn't  fit  for  it." 

Faith's  womanly  soul  revolted  at  the  alternative.  She 
was  proud  of  Paul,  her  clever,  well-educated  Oxford 
brother,  and  she  couldn't  bear  to  think  of  him,  even  in 
fancy,  degraded  to  the  level  of  a  mere  common  horsey 
hanger-on  of  stables.     "  Oh,  don't  say  that,  Paul,  darling !  " 


Tlir.    BARONETCY  !N    THE   BMANCE. 


MS 


she  cried,  half  aghast.  ••  I  wish  iloar  father  had  somebody 
to  help  hitn  and  take  his  place,  now  he's  old,  of  coiuse  ; 
but  iiot^w/,  I'.iul — not  you — oh,  never,  never !  Don't  talk 
of  it  even.     It  seems  such  a  perfect  desecration." 

"I'd  come  back  now  and  help  him,"  Paul  answered 
stubbornly.  "  I'd  come  back  and  help  him,  even  as  it  is, 
only  I  know  the  shock  of  it  would  break  his  heart,  lie 
could  never  put  up  with  the  disappointment.  I  can  manage 
a  horse  as  well  as  anybody  even  now,  and  I  wouldn't  mind 
the  work  one  bit — I  hope  I'm  strong-minded  enough  not  to 
be  ashamed  of  my  father's  trade — but  I'm  sure  he  himself 
would  never  consent  to  it.  He's  brouglit  me  up  to  be  a 
gentleman  as  well  as  he  could,  and  he's  fixed  his  heart  on 
my  being  a  credit  to  the  title,  whenever  the  miserable  thing 
falls  in  to  me  ;  and  if  I  were  to  turn  back  on  it  now  and 
come  home  to  help  him,  he'd  feel  it  was  a  come  down  from 
all  his  high  hopes  and  ideals  for  my  future,  and  he'd  be  a 
disappointed  man  henceforth  and  forever." 

"Oh,  yes,  and  to  think  of  the  disgrace  before  all  the 
county  ! "  F'aith  added  with  a  sigh.  A  woman  must 
always  see  things  mainly  from  the  social  point  of  view,  "  I 
should  hate  all  the  nasty  rich  people — the  Ilamiltons,  and 
the  Boyd-Galloways,  and  all  that  horrid  lot — to  go  snigger- 
ing and  chuckling  over  it  among  themselves,  as  I  know  they 
would,  and  to  say,  'So  that  fellow  Gascoyne,  after  sending 
his  son  to  Oxford  and  trying  to  make  a  gentleman  of  him, 
has  had  to  come  down  from  his  high  horse  at  last,  and 
bring  him  back  to  Hillborough  in  the  end  to  look  after  the 
stables  !  '  The  wretched,  sneering  things  !  I  know  the 
nasty  ways  of  them  !  " 

"  Father  could  never  stand  that,"  Paul  answered 
reflectively. 

"No.  never,"  Faith  replied.  "Paul,  don't  you  ever 
even  speak  of  it  to  him." 


'  \ 


w 


*"^4I 


346 


rut:   SCALLYWAG. 


lUit  for  the  three  weeks  of  his  stay  at  Ilillborough  Paul 
watched  his  father  with  close  atlciUion.  'I'he  baronet  cab- 
man wasn't  weli,ttiat  was  clear.  lie  complained  constantly 
of  a  dull  pain  in  iiis  side,  and  manifested  an  unwonted  dis* 
like  to  going  out  at  nights  whenever  the  sky  was  cold  or 
frosty.  The  wind  seetned  to  ketch  him,  he  said,  as  it'd 
never  ketched  him  in  all  his  life  afore,  out  Kent's  Mill  way, 
specially,  where  it  blew  most  hard  enough  to  take  a  man  off 
the  bo.x  these  bitter  evenings.  He  didn't  want  no  jobs  out 
there  by  Kent's  Hill  this  weather,  if  lie  could  help  it. 

New  Year's  week,  however,  was  a  busy  week  ;  there  were 
parties  and  dances  at  many  country  houses,  and  Sir  Emery's 
slate,  hung  up  behind  the  door,  was  thick  with  orders. 
Paul  was  busy,  too,  with  work  for  editors,  which  kejit 
him  close  at  his  desk,  writing  for  dear  life,  the  best  part  of 
the  day  ;  for  journalism  knows  no  such  word  as  holiday. 
As  much  as  Sir  Emery  would  let  him,  however,  Paul  went 
out  to  the  yard  at  odd  moments  to  harness  in  the  horses 
and  do  small  ends  of  work  whenever  the  hired  man  was  off 
on  a  job,  but  that  wasn't  often  ;  for  Sir  Emery  fretted  and 
fumed  to  see  Paul  so  occupied,  and  Faith  declared  the 
worry  it  engendered  in  her  father's  mind  was  almost  worse 
for  him,  she  believed,  than  the  cold  and  exposure.  Pulled 
two  ways,  in  fact,  by  her  double  devotion,  she  conspired 
with  Paul  to  help  her  father,  and  then  conspired  in  turn  to 
keep  Paul,  their  own  precious  Paul,  outside  the  stables  at 
all  hazards. 

The  4th  of  January  was  a  bitter  cold  day.  So  cold  a 
day  had  not  been  known  for  years  at  Hillborough.  In  the 
morning,  Mr.  Solomons  met  Sir  Emery  by  chance  at  the 
station.  "  Why,  bless  my  soul,  Gascoyne  !  "  he  cried,  with 
a  start,  '*  how  ill  you  look,  to  be  sure  !  "  Then  he  made  a 
mental  note  to  himself  that  the  premium  on  the  noble 
baronet's  life-policy  should  have  been  paid  yesterday,  and 


\  \ 


THE  BARONETCY  IN   THE  liAl.AS'CE, 


»47 


that  by  all  appearance*:  settlement  ought  not  to  he  delayed 
longer  than  to-morrow.  Von  never  know  what  a  day  may 
bring  forth  ;  and,  indeed,  if  Mr.  Solomons  hadn't  had  an 
execution  to  put  in  that  very  morning  at  Shiliingfrnl,  he 
would  have  rushed  off  there  and  then,  with  money  in  hand, 
to  make  sure  of  his  insurance  at  the  London  office. 

Instead  of  which  he  merely  remarked  in  a  casual  tone  as 
he  jumped  into  his  train,  "  My  thermometer  registered 
thirty-nine  degrees  of  frost  last  night.  'I'ake  care,  Gas- 
coyne,  how  you  expose  )oursclf  this  weather." 

At  ten  o'clock  that  evening,  as  they  sat  round  the  fire, 
chatting  family  gossip  in  a  group  t  gather,  Sir  Kmery  sud- 
denly  rose,  and  looked  at  the  clock.  **  I  must  be  going 
now,"  he  said  in  a  shuffling  way.  *•  'Arf  past  ten  was  the 
hour  Miss  Hoyd-Galloway  told  me." 

Faith  glanced  up  at  him  sharply  with  a  pained  look. 

♦'  Why,  you're  not  going  out  again  to-night,  father,"  she 
exclaimed  in  surprise.  "  There's  nothing  on  the  slate.  I 
looked  myself  to  see  about  it." 

"  Well,  this  'ere  was  a  verbal  border,"  Sir  Emery  answered, 
putting  on  his  coat  with  evident  difficulty,  and  some  marks 
of  pain  in  his  right  side.  *'  Miss  Hoyd-Galloway,  she  met  me 
down  in  the  'Igh  Street  this  morning,  and  she  told  me  I  was 
to  go  out  to  Kent's 'III  to  fetch  'er.  Dinner,  I  expect,  or 
else  a  small  an'  early.  But  I  reckon  it's  dinner ;  it's  most 
too  soon  to  go  to  take  up  even  for  a  children's  or  a  Cin- 
dereller." 

Paul  glanced  at  Faith,  and  Faith  glanced  at  Paul.  Sir 
Emery  had  evidently  omitted  to  note  it  on  the  slate  on  pur- 
pose. A  rapid  signaling  went  on  between  their  eyes. 
"  Dare  I  venture  ? "  Paul  asked  in  a  mute  pantomime  of 
Faith's :  and  Faith's,  with  a  droop  of  extreme  reluctance, 
made  answer  dumbly,  "  I  suppose  you  must.  He's  too  ill  to 
go  ;  but  oh,  Paul,  Paul,  the  disgrace  and  humiliation  of  it ! " 


%, 


-% 


248 


THE  SCALLYWAG. 


m 


The  young  man  made  up  his  mind  at  once  and  irrevo- 
cably. "  Father,"  he  said,  rising  and  fronting  him  as  he 
sto^d,  still  struggling  with  his  coat,  "  sit  down  where  you 
are.  I  can't  allow  you  to  go  up  to  Kent's  Hill  to-night. 
You're  not  feeling  well.  I  can  see  you're  suffering.  You're 
unfit  for  work.  You  must  let  me  go  to  take  up  Miss  Boyd- 
Galloway  instead  of  you." 

Sir  Emery  burst  into  a  sudden  laugh  of  genuine  amuse- 
ment. His  Paul  to  go  cab-driving  !  It  was  too  ridiculous. 
Then  the  laugh  seemed  to  catch  him  violently  in  the  side, 
and  he  subsided  once  more  with  a  pained  expression  of 
face.  "  Paul,  my  boy,"  he  answered,  sinking  back  into  his 
chair  to  hide  the  twinge,  *'  I  wouldn't  let  you  go,  no,  not 
for  five  'undred  pounds  down.  You,  as  is  a  gentleman  born 
and  bred  ;  and  out  there,  afore  the  eyes  of  all  'Illborough 
and  Surrey  !  " 

Faith  looked  at  her  mother  with  an  imperious  look. 
"  Father,"  she  cried,  seizing  his  arm  convulsively  in  her 
grasp,  "you  know  I  hate  it  as  much  as  you  do.  You  know 
I  can't  bear  for  Paul  to  do  it.  But  it  must  be  done.  It's 
a  hard  wrench,  bu-t  you  imist  let  him  go.  I  can  see  you're 
ill.  Dear  father,  you  ought  to  have  told  us  before,  and  then 
perhaps  we  might  have  managed  to  get  some  other  driver." 

"  There  aint  no  other  driver  nor  other  'oss  disengaged 
in  all  'Illborough  to-night,"  her  father  answered  confidently, 
shaking  his  head  as  he  looked  at  her. 

Once  more  Faith  telegraphed  with  her  eyes  to  Paul,  and 
Paul  telegraphed  back  to  Faith.  "  Father,"  he  said,  laying 
his  hand  on  the  old  man's  shoulder  persuasively,  "you  must 
let  me  go.  There's  no  other  way  out  of  it.  I'll  wrap  my- 
self up  tight  and  muffle  my  throat,  if  you  like,  so  that 
nobody'll  notice  me  ;  and  in  the  dark,  at  the  door,  they're 
not  likely  to  look  close.  But  go  I  nmst ;  of  that  I'm  de- 
termined." 


THE  BARONETCY  IX   THE  BALANCE. 


249 


The  father  humored  him  for  a  moment.  "  Well,  you  can 
go  anyway  and  put  in  the  'osses,"  he  answered  reluctantly. 
For  he  hated  his  son  to  do  anything  at  all  about  the  stables 
and  coachhouse. 

Paul  went  out  and  put  them  in  at  once  with  the  confi- 
dence of  old  habituation.  Then  he  left  them  standing 
alone  in  the  yard  while  he  ran  upstairs  to  get  his  ulster  and 
comforter,  •'  Wait  a  ninute,"  he  said,  "  I'll  soon  be  down." 
Faith  went  up  with  him  to  see  that  all  was  snug  and  warm. 
"  Mind  you  wrap  up  well,  Paul,"  she  cried,  with  her  eyes 
dimmed  sadly  for  the  family  disgrace,  *'  It's  a  bitter  cold 
night.  If  father  was  to  go  up  to  Kent's  Hill  this  evening, 
I'm  sure  it'd  very  nearly  be  the  death  of  him." 

In  two  minutes  more  they  descended  the  stairs.  At  the 
door  Faith  stopped  and  kissed  him  convulsively.  It  was  a 
hard  wrench,  but  she  knew  they  must  do  it.  Then  they 
went  together  into  the  little  p^.rlor.  There  their  mother 
sat  looking  very  uncomfortable  in  her  easy-chair.  The 
larger  one  opposite,  where  Sir  Emery  usually  took  his  ease 
by  night,  was  now  vacant.  Faith  glanced  at  Paul  in  mute 
inquiry. 

*'  Where  is  he,  mother  ?  "  Paul  gasped  out  anxiously. 

*'  'E's  gone,  Paul,"  Mrs.  Gascoyne  answered  with  a  sud- 
den gulp.  "The  minute  you  was  out  o'  the  room,  'e 
whipped  up  his  things,  jumped  up  from  's  chair,  and  says 
to  me  in  a  hurry,  *  Mother,  I'm  off,'  says  'e,  an'  out  he  run 
in  *s  overcoat  as  he  stood,  scrambled  up  on  to  the  box,  gave 
the  'osses  the  word,  an'  afore  I  could  as  much  as  say, 
'Emery,  don't,'  drove  off  up  the  road  as  'ard  as  'is  'ands 
could  drive  'em." 

Faith  sank  into  the  chair  with  a  despairing  look.  "  It'll 
kill  him,"  she  cried,  sobbing.     *'0  Paul,  it'll  kill  him !  " 

Paul  never  waited  or  hesitated  for  a  second.  "  Where's 
he  gone  ?"  he  cried.     *'  To  which  house  on  the  hill !     1*11 


if^* 


J 


25° 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


run  after  him,  catch  him  up,  and  drive  him  back  home,  if 
only  you  know  which  house  he's  going  to," 

*•  He  never  told  us,"  Faith  gasped  out,  as  white  as  death. 
"He  only  said  he  was  going  to  Kent's  Hill  to  fetch  Miss 
Boyd-Galloway.  There  are  so  many  big  houses  on  the 
hill,  and  so  many  roads,  and  so  many  dinners  just  now. 
But  perhaps  the  likeliest  is  Colonel  Hamilton's,  isn't 
it?" 

Without  another  word,  Paul  opened  the  door  and  darted 
up  the  street.  "  I'll  catch  him  yet,"  he  cried,  as  he  dashed 
round  the  corner  of  Plowden's  Court.  "  Oh,  mother, 
mother,  you  ought  to  have  stopped  him  !  " 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

IN    HOT    PURSUIT. 


Taking  it  for  granted  his  father  had  driven,  as  Faith 
suggested,  to  Colonel  Hamilton's,  Paul  ran  at  full  speed 
along  the  frosty  highroad  in  the  direction  of  that  end  of 
the  Kent's  Hill  hog's  back.  For  the  hill  rears  itself  up  as 
a  great  mass  of  narrow  sandstone  upland,  extending  for 
some  three  miles  in  a  long  straight  line  down  the  center  of 
the  vplley,  and  exposed  to  all  the  four  winds  of  heaven 
impartially.  Snow  was  beginning  to  fall  now,  and  the  road 
underfoot  rang  hard  as  iron,  Paul  ran  on  without  stopping 
till  he  was  out  of  breath.  Then  he  halted  a  while  by  the 
foot  of  the  first  slope,  and  climbed  slowly  on  toward  the 
lower  platform. 

Halfway  up  he  met  a  returning  cab,  full,  of  course,  and 
therefore  unwilling  to  wait  and  be  questioned.  But  it  was 
no  time  to  stand  on  ceremony  now.     Paul  knew  his  father's 


IN  HOT  PURSUIT. 


25» 


ind 


life  was  absolutely  at  stake.  He  called  to  it  to  halt.  The 
driver  recognized  his  voice  and  pulled  up  to  a  walk. 
"  Have  you  passed  my  father  anywhere,  going  up  the 
hill?"  Paul  inquired  eagerly. 

" 'Ow  do  I  know?"  the  man  answered  in  a  very  gruff 
tone,  ill-pleased  at  the  interruption.  '*  I've  passed  a  dozen 
or  more  of  kebs  and  kerridges  goin'  to  fetch  parties  'ere 
and  there  on  the  'ill  ;  but  it's  as  dark  as  pitch,  so  'oo's  to 
know  by  magic  'oo  druv  them?"  And  whistling  to  him- 
self a  dissatisfied  whistle,  he  wnipped  up  again  and  drove 
on,  leaving  Paul  no  wiser. 

It's  a  very  long  way  from  Hillboroug  i  to  Kent's  Hill, 
five  miles  at  least  by  the  shortest  road  ;  and  long  before 
Paul  had  reached  the  top  his  heart  began  to  sink  within 
him  as  he  saw  how  impossible  it  was  for  him  to  overtake 
his  father.  Nevertheless,  he  persisted,  out  of  pure  stubborn 
doggedness  and  perseverance  ;  he  would  go  at  least  to  the 
house  and  let  him  know  he  was  there.  And,  if  possible,  he 
would  persuade  him  tc  iv-main  under  shelter  at  some  neigh- 
boring cottage  till  the  next  morning. 

But  oh,  the  long  weary  way  up  those  frozen  hills,  all  in 
the  dark,  with  the  snow  falling  fast  in  the  road,  and  the 
bitter  cold  wind  beating  hard  all  the  time  against  his  face 
as  he  fronted  it !  It  was  cold  for  Paul  even  as  he  walked 
and  faced  it — cold  in  spite  of  the  exertion  of  mounting. 
How  infinitely  colder,  then,  it  must  be  for  his  father,  sit- 
ting still  on  the  box,  with  that  dull  pain  growing  deeper 
every  minute  in  his  side,  and  the  chill  wind  whistling  round 
the  corners  of  the  carriage  ! 

On,  and  on,  and  on,  through  the  soft  snow,  he  trudged, 
with  his  heart  sinking  lower  at  every  step,  and  his  feet  and 
hands  growing  colder  and  colder.  Of  all  the  hills  in  Eng- 
land, Kent's  Hill  is  the  very  most  interminable.  Time  after 
time  you  think  you  are  at  the  top,  and  time  after  time,  just 


) : 


^1 


51  i- 


,  i 


252 


7V/£   SCALLYiVAO, 


as  you  reach  the  apparent  summit,  yoii  see  yet  another 
slope  opening  out  with  delusive  finality  in  front  of  you. 
But  at  last  Paul  reached  the  end  of  those  five  long  miles 
and  those  nine  hundred  feet  of  sheer  ascent,  and  turned 
with  wearied  and  aching  limbs  under  the  gateway  of  Col- 
onel  Hamilton's  garden.  At  the  door  he  saw  at  once  he 
had  come  in  vain.  There  was  certainly  no  party  at  the 
colonel's  to-night.  Not  a  carriage  at  the  door  ;  not  a  sign 
of  life.  It  was  close  on  eleven  now,  but  emboldened  by 
necessity,  he  rang  the  bell.  After  some  minutes  his  ring 
was  answered  by  a  sui)ercilious  footman  in  incomplete  cos- 
tume. *'  I'm  sorry  to  trouble  you,"  Paul  gasped,  "  but  can 
you  tell  me,  please,  whereabouts  on  the  hill  there's  a  party 
to-night?  " 

The  supercilious  footman  eyed  him  askance  with  pro- 
found astonishment.  "  Voung  man,"  he  said  severely, 
*•  do  you  mean  to  say  you've  rung  me  up  this  time  of  night 
from  my  own  bedroom,  for  nothink  else  but  to  ask  me 
wheie  there's  a  party  on  the  'ill  ?  There's  parties  on  the 
'ill  everywhere  this  evening."  And  without  waiting  for 
Paul  to  explain  himself  further,  he  slammed  the  door  to  in 
his  face  with  uncompromising  rudeness. 

Paul  turned  from  the  porch,  too  much  distressed  on  his 
father's  account  even  to  notice  the  personal  insult,  and 
made  his  way  through  the  snow,  along  uncertain  paths,  to 
the  very  top  of  the  ridge,  where  he  could  see  on  either  hand 
over  the  whole  surrounding  country,  and  just  at  what  house 
the  lights  burned  brightest.  Lady  Mary  Webster's  seemed 
most  thronged  of  any,  and  Miss  Boyd-Galloway  was  inti- 
mate with  Lady  Mary.  So  thither  Paul  plodded  along  by 
the  top  of  the  ridge,  descending  through  the  grounds,  reck- 
less of  fences  or  proprietary  rights,  till  he  stood  in  front  of 
the  crowded  carriage-drive.  Coachmen  were  there,  half  a 
dozen  or  more,  walking  up  and  down  in  the  snow  and  beat- 


rX  HOT  P  UK  S  if  IT. 


35.? 


irrg  their  chests  with  their  arms  to  keep  themselves  warm, 
while  their  weary  horses  stood  patiently  by,  the  snow  melt- 
ing as  it  fell  on  their  flanks  and  faces. 

It  was  no  night  for  any  nian  to  keep  another  waiting  on. 

"  'Ere's  Gascoyne's  son  !  "  one  of  the  cabmen  cried  as  he 
came  up,  for  they  were  mostly  cabmen,  nobody  caring  to 
risk  their  own  horses'  lives  abroad  in  such  slippery  weather  ; 
since  rich  men,  indeed,  take  more  heed  of  horseflesh  than 
of  their  even-Christians. 

"  Why,  what  do  you  want,  Mr.  Paul  ?  "  another  of  them 
asked,  half-touching  his  hat  in  a  kind  of  undecided  salute 
to  the  half  made  gentleman  ;  for  they  all  knew  that  Gas- 
Coyne's  son  had  been  to  Oxford  College,  and  would  develop 
in  time  into  a  real  recognized  baronet,  with  his  name  in  the 
peerage. 

"  Is  my  father  here,  or  has  he  been  here  ? "  Paul  cried 
out,  breathless.  "  He  went  out  to-night  when  he  wasn't  fit 
to  go,  and  I've  come  up  to  see  if  he's  got  here  safe,  or  if  I 
could  do  anything  in  any  way  to  help  him." 

The  first  speaker  shook  his  head  with  a  very  decided 
negative.  "  No,  'e  aint  been  'ere,"  he  answered.  "  'F/ 
'aven't  no  job.  Leastways,  none  of  us  aint  a  seen  'im  any- 
where." 

A  terrible  idea  flashed  across  Paul's  mind.  Could  his 
father  have  started  and  failed  on  the  way  ?  Too  agitated 
to  care  what  might  happen  to  himself  again,  he  rang  the 
bell,  and  asked  the  servant  boldly,  *'  Is  Miss  Boyd-Galloway 
here  ?  or  has  she  been  here  this  evening  ? " 

**  No,  sir,"  the  servant  answered  ;  he  was  a  stranger  in 
the  land,  and  judged  Paul  rightly  by  his  appearance  and 
accent.  "Miss  Boyd-Galloway's  not  been  here  at  all.  I 
don't  think,  in  fact,  my  lady  expected  her." 

"  Will  you  go  in  and  ask  if  anybody  knows  where  Miss 
Boyd-Galloway's  spending  the  evening  ?"  Paul  cried  in  his 


in 

I.' 


p  %k 


P'  \ 


hy'i 


254 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


agony.  "Tell  them  it's  a  matter  of  life  and  death.  I  want 
to  know  where  to  find  Miss  Boyd-Galloway." 

In  a  few  minutes  more  the  servant  returned,  bringing; 
along  with  him  young  Mr.  Webster,  the  son  of  the  house, 
in  person.  "  Oh,  it's  you,  is  it,  Oascoyne  ?  "  the  young  man 
said,  eyeing  him  somewhat  astonished.  "  Why,  what  on 
earth  do  you  want  with  Miss  Boyd-Galloway  this  evening?" 

"  My  father's  gone  to  fetch  her,"  Paul  gasped  out  in 
despair  ;  "  he's  very  ill  to-night,  and  oughtn't  to  have  ven- 
tured out,  and  I've  come  to  see  whether  I  can  overtake 
him." 

Young  Mr.  Webster  was  kind-hearted  in  his  way.  **  I'm 
sorry  for  that,"  he  said  good-naturedly  ;  "but  I'm  glad  it's 
nothing  the  matter  with  Miss  Boyd-Galloway  herself,  anyhow. 
Lady  Mary  was  in  quite  a  state  of  mind  just  now  when  she 
got  your  message.  I  must  run  in  at  once  and  reassure  her. 
But  won't  you  step  inside  and  have  a  glass  of  wine  before 
you  go  off  yourself  "i  You  don't  look  well,  and  it's  a  freez- 
ing cold  night.  Here,  Roberts,  a  glass  of  wine  for  Mr. 
Gascoyne  in  the  hall.     Now,  will  you  ?" 

**  I  won't  take  any  wine,  thanks,"  Paul  answered  hurriedly, 
declining  the  proffered  hospitality  on  more  grounds  than 
one.  "  But  yor  haven't  told  me  if  you  know  where  Miss 
Boyd-Galloway's  spending  the  evening.  I  must  find  out,  to 
go  to  my  father."  He  spoke  so  anxiously  that  there  was  no 
mistaking  the  serious  importance  of  his  errand. 

"Oh,  I'll  go  and  inquire,"  young  Webster  answered  care- 
lessly ;  and  he  went  back  at  once  with  his  lounging  step  to 
the  bright  warm  drawing  room. 

"Who  is  it?"  Lady  Mary  exclaimed,  coming  forward 
eagerly.  "  Don't  tell  me  anything  dreadful  has  happened 
to  dear  Isabel." 

"  Oh,  it's  nothing  at  all,"  young  Webster  answered, 
laughing  outright  at  her  fears.     "  It's  only  that  young  Gas- 


1  "■ 


<l 


IN  HOT  PURSUIT. 


255 


coyne  from  Hillborough  wants  to  know  at  once  where  Isa- 
bel's dining." 

"  That  young  Gascoyne ! "  Lady  Mary  cried,  agliast. 
''Not  the  young  man  they  sent  up  to  Oxford,  I  hope' 
Why,  what  on  earth  can  he  want,  my  dear  Bertie,  with 
Isabel  ? " 

"  He  doesn't  want  Isabel,"  the  young  man  answered,  with 
an  amused  smile.  "  It  seems  his  father's  gone  somewhere 
to  fetch  her,  and  he  thinks  the  old  man's  too  ill  to  be  out, 
and  he's  come  up  on  foot  all  the  way  to  look  after  him." 

"  Very  proper  of  him  to  help  his  father,  of  course,"  Lady 
Mary  assented  with  a  stiff  acquiescence,  perceiving  in  this 
act  a  due  appreciation  of  the  duty  of  the  poor  to  their 
parents,  as  set  forth  in  the  Church  catechism  ;  "  but  he 
ought  surely  to  know  better  than  to  come  and  disturb  us 
about  such  a  subject.  He  might  have  rung  and  inquired  of 
Roberts." 

"  So  he  did,"  her  son  answered,  with  masculine  common 
sense.  "  But  Roberts  couldn't  tell  him,  so  he  very  naturally 
asked  for  me  ;  and  the  simple  question  now  is  this — where's 
Isabel  ?  " 

"She's  dining  at  the  dean's,"  Lady  Mary  replied  coldly, 
"but  don't  you  go  and  tell  him  so  yourself  for  worlds,  Bertie. 
Let  Roberts  take  out  the  message  to  the  young  person." 
For  Lady  Mary  was  a  stickler  in  her  way  for  the  due  sub- 
ordination of  the  classes  of  society. 

Before  the  words  were  well  out  of  her  ladyship's  mouth, 
however,  her  son  had  made  his  way  into  the  hall  once  more, 
unheeding  the  prohibition,  and  conveyed  to  Paul  the  infor- 
mation he  wanted  as  to  Miss  Boyd-Galloway's  present 
whereabouts. 

The  message  left  Paul  more  hopelessly  out  of  his  bear- 
ings than  ever.  The  fact  was,  he  had  come  the  wrong  way. 
The  Dean's  was  at  the  exact  opposite  end  of  Kent's  Hill, 


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THE   SCALLYWAG. 


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three  miles  from  the  Wcbsters'  as  the  crow  flies,  by  a  trackless 
route  among  gorse  and  heather.  There  was  no  chance  now 
left  of  overtaking  his  father  before  he  drove  from  the  house. 
All  Paul  could  possibly  do  was  to  follow  in  his  steps  and 
hear  what  tidings  he  could  of  him  from  those  who  had 
seen   him. 

Away  he  trudged,  with  trembling  feet,  along  the  crest  of 
the  ridge,  stumbling  from  time  to  time  over  bushes  half 
hidden  by  the  newly  fallen  snow,  and  with  the  keen  air  cut- 
ting against  his  face  like  a  knife  as  he  breasted  it.  It  wi  a 
indeed  an  awful  night — awful  even  down  in  the  snug  valley 
at  Hillborough,  but  almost  Arctic  in  the  intensity  of  its 
bitter  cold  on  those  bleak,  wind-swept  uplands.  They  say 
Kent's  Hill  is  the  chilliest  spot  in  winter  in  all  southern 
England  :  as  Paul  pushed  his  way  across  the  long,  bare 
summit  that  January  evening,  he  trembled  in  his  heart  for 
the  effect  upon  his  father.  It  was  slow  work,  indeed,  to 
cover  the  three  miles  that  lay  between  him  and  the  dean's, 
even  disregardful  as  he  was  of  the  frequent  notice  boards 
which  threatened  the  utmost  rigor  ot  ihe  law  with  churlish 
plainness  of  speech  to  inoffensive  trespassers.  More  than 
once  he  missed  his  way  in  the  blinding  snow,  and  found 
himself  face  to  face  with  the  steeply  scarped  southern  bank, 
or  with  some  wall  or  hedge  on  the  slope  to  northward. 
But  at  last,  pushing  on  in  spite  of  all  difficulties,  he  reached 
the  garden  at  the  dean's,  and  stood  alone  within  the  snow- 
covered  gateway.  There,  all  was  still  once  more  ;  the  party 
had  melted  away,  for  it  was  now  nearly  midnight.  But  a 
light  still  burned  feebly  in  one  of  the  upper  rooms.  In  his 
eagerness  and  anxiety  Paul  could  not  brook  delay  ;  he 
ventured  here  again  to  press  the  bell.  A  servant  put  out  his 
head  slowly  and  inquiringly  from  the  half  opened  window. 

"Was  Miss  Boyd-Galloway  dining  here  to-night  ?"  Paul 
asked,  with  a  sinking  heart,  of  the  sleepy  servant, 


AT    THE   CALL    Oh    PC  TV. 


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"  Yes,"  the  man  answered,  *'  but  she's  gone  half  an  hour 
ago." 

•' Who  drove  her  home,  or  did  she  drive  home  at  all?" 
Paul  inquired  once  more. 

"  How  should  I  know  .'"  the  servant  replied,  withdrawing 
his  head  testily.  "  Do  you  think  1  take  dewn  their  numbers 
as  they  pass,  like  the  bobby  at  the  station  ?  She  aint  here  ; 
that's  all.     .\sk  nie  another  one." 

And  he  slammed  the  casement,  leaving  Paul  alone  on  the 
snow-covered  gravel  walk. 


TH  AFTER   XXX. 


AT     rHK    TALL    OF    DUTY. 


ll 


H'1 


Meanwhile,  Sir  Emery  Gascoyne,  Baronet,  had  been 
faithfully  carrying  out  the  duties  of  his  station.  He  had 
promised  to  go  and  fetch  Miss  Boyd-Galloway  at  the 
dean's,  and  come  snow  or  rain,  or  hail  or  frost,  with  perfect 
fidelity  he  had  gone  to  fetch  her. 

His  fatherly  pride  would  never  have  allowed  him  to  let 
Paul — his  gentleman  son — take  his  place  on  the  box  even 
for  a  single  evening.  Better  by  far  meet  his  fate  than  thai. 
To  die  was  a  thousand  times  easier  than  disgrace.  So,  as 
soon  as  Paul  was  out  of  sight  upstairs,  he  had  risen  from 
his  seat,  seized  his  whip  from  the  rack,  and,  in  spite  of  that 
catching  pain  deep  down  in  his  side,  driven  off  hastily  be- 
fore Paul  could  intercept  him. 

The  drive  to  the  hill — by  the  west  road  at  the  further 
end,  while  Paul  had  followed  by  the  shorter  and  steeper 
eastern  route — was  a  bitter  cold  one  :  and  the  horses, 
though  roughed  that  day,  had  stumbled  many  times  ^  n  the 


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258 


7W£   SCALf.YirA^;. 


frozen  slopes,  having  stern  work  indeed  to  drag;  the  heavy 
c.ib  up  that  endless  zi;^zag.  As  Sir  Knit-ry  drove,  the  pain 
in  his  side  rtcw  duller  and  deeper  :  and  though  he  was  too 
unskilletl  in  diagnosis  to  know  it  for  plenrisy,  as  it  really 
was,  he  felt  himself  it  was  blow  uig  np  hard  for  a  serious 
illness.  lUit,  accustomed  as  he  had  lt>ng  been  to  exposure 
in  all  weathers,  he  maile  light  of  the  discomfort,  and  drove 
bravely  along  to  the  dean's  doorway.  • 

It  was  half-past  ten  by  Sir  Emery's  watch — the  necessary 
business  silver  watch  of  the  country  cabman  — when  he 
reached  the  house  :  but  though  he  sent  in  word  that  he  was 
there  and  ready,  his  fare  was  in  no  great  hurry,  as  it 
seemed,  to  present  herself. 

"Miss  Boyd-Galloway's  carria^  '  the  footman  an- 
nounced ;  but  Miss  lioyd  Galloway,  nnmersed  in  her  game 
of  whist,  only  nodded  in  reply,  and  went  on  playing  out 
the  end  of  the  rubber  in  dignified  silence.  She  was  a  lady 
who  loved  the  rigor  of  the  game.  It  was  comfortably  warm 
in  that  snug  country-house  ;  and  who  thinks  of  the  cabman 
outside  in  the  cold  there  ? 

The  other  coachmen  walked  up  and  down,  and  slapped 
their  chests,  and  exhorted  their  horses.  But  Sir  Emery 
sat  motionless  and  chilled  on  the  box,  not  daring  to  dis- 
mount lest  when  once  down  he  should  be  unable  to  get  up 
again.  The  butler,  a  good-natured  soul  who  had  known 
him  for  years,  offered  him  a  glass  of  whisky-and-water  to 
keep  him  warm.  But  Sir  Emery  shook  his  head  in  dissent : 
it  would  only  make  him  colder  if  he  had  to  sit  long  on  the 
box  in  the  snow  there. 

"  Gascoyne's  off  his  feed,"  another  cabman  remarked 
with  a  cheerful  nod  ;  and  the  rest  laughed. 

But  Sir  Emery  didn't  laugh.  He  sat  stark  and  stiff, 
breathing  every  moment  with  increasing  difficulty,  on  his 
seat  by  the  porch,  under  the  shelter  of  the  yew-tree. 


A  7     THE    CALL    OJ-    DUTY. 


259 


^f 


For  half  an  hour  or  more  he  waited  in  the  coUI.  One 
after  another  the  guests  dropped  out  and  drove  away  piece- 
meal:  but  not  Miss  Hoyd-(ialioway.  He  trcmliled  .md  shiv- 
ered and  ^rcw  numb  withit).  \'et  wait  he  must;  there  was 
absohitely  no  help  for  it.  C'oUkr  and  colder  he  j;i(!W  till 
he  seemed  all  ice.  His  father's  heart  was  broken  within 
him.  More  than  once  in  his  miserabfe  faintness  he  half 
wished  to  himself  that  he  had  allowed  I'aul,  after  all,  just 
this  one  ni;;ht  to  relieve  him. 

At  last  the  d(H)r  opened  for  the  tenth  time,  and  *'  Miss 
Royd-Oalloway's  carnajje  "  was  duly  summoneil. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.  Sir  iMnery  was  ahiiost 
t(nj  numb  to  move.  Then  slowly,  with  an  effort,  he  turned 
his  horses,  and  wheeling  round  in  a  circle  brought  them  up 
to  the  doorway. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  keeping  us  waiting  here  in  the 
cold  like  this?"  Miss  F^oyd-Clalloway  ..>.ked  in  a  sharp, 
rasping  voice.  She  was  a  sour-looking  lady  of  a  certain 
age,  and  losing  the  rubber  never  improved  her  teni[)cr. 

Sir  Emery  answered  nothing.  He  was  too  well  accus- 
tomed to  the  ways  of  the  trade  even  to  reflect  to  himself  in 
his  own  silent  soul  that  Miss  Boyd-Galloway  had  kept  him 
waiting  in  the  cold— and  in  far  worse  cold — for  considera- 
bly more  than  half  an  hour. 

The  footman  stood  forward  and  opened  the  door.  Miss 
Boyd-Galloway  and  her  friend,  wrapped  in  endless  rugs 
over  their  square-cut  dresses,  stepped  inside  and  seated 
themselves.  "  Home  .' "  Miss  Boyd-Galloway  called  out  in 
an  authoritative  voice.  There  was  another  pause.  Miss 
Boyd-Galloway  put  out  her  head  to  see  the  reason.  "  Home, 
I  said,  Gascoyne,"  ^he  repeated  angrily.  "  Didn't  you  hear 
me  speak  ?     Why,  what  are  you  waiting  for  ?" 

Sir  Emery  raised  his  whip  with  an  evident  effort.  "  I'm 
a  goin',  miss,"  he  answered,  and  his  voice  was  thick.     "  But 


»*  ^. 


36o 


TFIF.    SCAl.T.YWAC. 


I 


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it's  a  main  cold  oi^ihl,  and  ihc  road's  *cavy,  and  the  'osses 
is  tired." 

"Good  gracious,  what  itn|)ertineticc  !*'  Miss  Hoyd-Oallo- 
way  observed,  withdrawinj;  her  head  and  siiiverinK  audibly. 
"It's  my  belief,  Louisa,  th.il  man's  been  drinking" 

"  He  certainly  didn't  seem  able  to  move  on  the  box,"  hrr 
companion  retorted,  "  I  noticed  his  manner." 

**0h,  he's  drunk,"  Miss  Uoyd-Clalioway  answered  with 
prompt  decisiveness.  "  Dead  drunk,  I'm  certain.  Just  see 
how  he's  driving.  He  hasn't  even  j^ot  sense  enough  left  to 
guide  his  horses,  and  it  runs  in  the  blood,  you  know  ; 
they're  a  precious  bad  lot  all  through,  these  Gascoynes  I 
To  think  that  a  man  should  have  come  down  to  this,  whose 
ancestors  were  gentlemen  born  and  bred  and  real  Welsh 
baronets  !  A  common  cab  driver,  and  drunk  at  that  I 
And  the  daughter's  just  as  bad — that  horrid  girl  at  the 
National  School  at  Uillborough.  A  proud,  discontented, 
niipertment  hussey  !  Why,  she  won't  even  say  'miss'  to 
-Tiy  face  when  she  speaks  to  me." 

"  Phew,  what  a  jolt !"  the  other  lady  exclaimed,  seizing 
Miss  Boyd-Galloway's  arm  as  the  cab  tipped  up  over  a  rut 
in  the  roadway. 

"Drunk  !  quite  drunk!"  Miss  Boyd -Galloway  repeated 
with  a  meditative  air,  now  confirmed  in  her  opinion.  "  I 
only  hope  to  goodness  he  won't  upset  us  in  the  snow — it's 
awfully  drifted — anywhere  here  by  the  roadside." 

And,  indeed,  to  do  the  fare  full  justice,  there  seemed 
good  reason  that  particular  evening  to  blame  Sir  Emery 
Gascoyne's  driving.  As  a  rule,  the  baronet  was  a  careful 
and  cautious  whip,  little  given  to  wild  or  reckless  coach- 
manship, and  inclined  to  be  sparing,  both  by  inclination 
and  policy,  of  his  valuable  horseflesh.  Bit  to-night  he 
seemed  to  let  the  horses  wander  at  their  own  sweet  will, 
from  side  to  side,  hardly  guiding  them  at  all  through  the 


A  7    THE  CALL   OF  DVTY. 


a6i 


ii' 


snow  ami  the  crossings.  At  times  they  swerved  danger- 
ously, close  to  the  ort-hcilge  ;  at  others  they  almost  ncarcci 
the  edge  of  the  slope  that  led  down  the  zigzag.  "We 
shall  never  get  out  of  this  alive,"  Miss  Iloyil-Ciailoway 
remarked,  leaning  back  philosophically;  "but  if  we  do, 
Louisa,  I  shall  certainly  get  (lascoyne's  licence  taken  away, 
or  have  him  well  fmcd  at  Uncle  Ldward's  petty  sessions  for 
reckless  driving." 

At  the  corner  by  the  larches  the  horses  turned  sharp  into 
the  main  road.  They  turned  so  abruptly  that  they  almost 
upset  the  cab  and  its  precious  freight.  Miss  iloyd-Gallo- 
way's  patient  soul  could  stand  it  no  longer.  In  spite  of  the 
cold  air  and  the  driving  snow  she  opened  the  window  wide, 
|)ushed  out  her  woolen-enveloped  head,  and  expostulated 
vigorously.  "  If  you  don't  take  more  care,  (iascoyne,  1 
shall  have  you  fined.  You're  endangering  our  lives.  You've 
been  drinking,  I'm  sure.  Full  yourself  t(jgether,  man,  and 
drive  carefully  now,  or  else  we'll  get  out  and  walk,  and  then 
report  yon." 

Sir  Emery  essayed  an  inarticulate  answer.  Hut  his  breath 
was  feeble,  and  the  words  stuck  in  his  throat.  Miss  Boyd- 
Galloway  withdrew  her  indignant  head  more  angry  than 
ever.  "  He's  absolutely  stupid  and  dumb  with  drink,"  she 
said,  musing  with  positive  pleasure  over  the  cabman's  delin- 
quencies. *'  He  can't  get  out  a  word.  He's  too  drunk  to 
sit  straight.  It'll  be  a  mercy  if  we  all  get  back  alive.  But 
I'm  morally  confident  we  won't,  so  make  up  your  mind  for 
the  worst,  Louisa." 

Near  the  entrance  to  the  town.  Miss  Boyd-Galloway 
didn't  notice  through  the  dimmed  window-panes  that  their 
coachman  was  taking  them  in  the  wrong  direction.  Or, 
rather,  to  speak  more  accurately,  the  horses,  now  left  to 
their  own  devices,  were  returning  at  their  own  pace  to  their 
familiar  stable. 


i%* 


\    \\ 


'"  'i 


262 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


They  plodded  along  slowly,  slowly  now,  for  the  snow  on 
the  road  ^^rew  ever  deeper  and  deeper.  Their  gait  Wcis  re- 
duced to  a  shamblinfj  walk,  with  occasional  interludes  of 
stumbling  and  slipping.  Miss  Boyd-Galloway's  wrath 
wa.xed  deep  and  still.  She  didn\  remonstrate  any  longer  : 
she  felt  sure  in  her  own  heart  Gascoyne  had  got  beyond  all 
that  long  since  :  she  meditated  "  fourteen  days  without  the 
option  of  a  fine,"  as  the  very  sligiite.l  punishment  Uncle 
Edward  could  in  reason  award  him. 

Finally,  and  suddenly,  a  jerk,  a  halt.  They  turned  unex- 
pectedly down  a  narrow  side  entrance.  Miss  Boyd-Galloway 
was  aware  of  a  courtlike  shadow.  Houses  rose  sheer 
around  her  on  every  side.  Surely,  surely,  this  was  not  the 
Priory,  not  the  paternal  mansion.  Miss  Boyd-Galloway 
put  out  her  head  and  looked  about  her  once  more,  "  Oh, 
Louisa,  Louisa,  what  on  earth  are  we  to  do  ? "  she  cried,  in 
impotent  despair.  ♦*  The  man's  so  drunk  that  instead  of 
taking  us  home  he's  allowed  the  horses  to  come  back  to 
their  own  stables  !  " 

"  I  shall  get  out  this  minute  and  walk  !  "  her  friend  ejac- 
ulated sleepily. 

They  got  out  and  stood  by  the  side  of  the  cab.  "  Now, 
Gascoyne,"  Miss  Boyd-Galloway  oegan  in  a  very  shrill  tone, 
"  this  is  really  too  bad.  You're  asleep  on  the  box,  sir. 
Wake  up,  I  say  ;  wake  up  now,  will  you  ?" 

But  Sir  Emery  sat  stifi  and  stark  in  his  place,  and  never 
heeded  even  the  admonition  of  Miss  Boyd-Galloway's  stout 
umbrella,  poked  hard  against  his  side  in  practical  remon- 
strance. 

As  they  stood  there,  wondering,  the  back  door  of  the 
ho'ise  was  flung  open  wide,  and  Faith  Gascoyne,  with  her 
head  uncovered,  rushed  hastily  out  'into  the  dark,  cold 
courtyard.  S!  3ok  no  notice  of  the  two  ladies  who  stood 
there,  shivering,  in  their  wrap?  aid  shawls,  on  the  snow-clad 


AT   THE   CALL    OT  Df'TV. 


263 


i'i 


Stones,  but.  darted  wildly  forward  toward  the  figure  on  the 
box.  **  Fatiier,  father !"  she  cried  in  an  agonized  voice, 
"are  you  all  right,  darling?" 

*'  No,  he's  not  all  right,"  Mjss  Boyd-Clalloway  answered 
testily,  retreating  toward  the  passage.  *'  He's  anything  but 
right,  and  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  him.  He's  as  drunk 
as  an  owl,  and  he's  brought  us  back  here  to  his  own  place, 
instead  of  taking  us  home  nr,  he  ought  to  the  Priory." 

But  Faith  paid  little  heed  to  the  lady's  words.  She  was 
far  too  agitated  and  frightened  for  that.  She  flung  her 
arms  wildly  round  that  stiff,  stark  figure,  and  kissed  its 
mouth  over  and  over  again  with  a  terrible  foreboding.  Sir 
Emery  sat  there  unheeding  still.  Then  Faith  started  back 
aghast,  with  a  sudden  flash  of  discovery,  and  held  up  her 
hands  in  an  agony  of  horror  and  alarm  to  heaven.  A  fierce 
cry  burst  from  her  quivering  lips.  "  He's  dead  !  "  she  sobbed 
out  in  her  agony.     "  He's  dead  !    Oh,  father,  father  !  " 

And  so  he  was.  He  had  died  in  harness.  **  Acute  pleu- 
risy, aggravated  by  exposure,"  the  doctor  called  it  in  his 
official  statement  next  day.  But  for  the  present,  all  Faith 
knew  and  felt  was  that  her  father  was  gone,  and  that  she 
stood  there  that  moment  alone  with  her  bereavement. 

In  time,  as  she  stood  there,  helpless  and  unnerved,  a 
neighbor  or  two  came  out  and  carried  him  in.  He  was 
quite,  quite  d^ad  :  almost  as  stiff  and  cold  as  stone  with  the 
frt)«t  already.  They  laid  him  down  tenderly  on  the  horse- 
hair sofa  in  the  little  parlor.  Sir  Emery  Gascoyne,  Baronet, 
had  met  his  death  well,  performing  his  duty. 

And  Miss  Boyd-Galloway  in  the  yard  without,  staring 
hard  at  her  friend,  and  wringing  her  hands,  remarked 
more  than  once  in  a  hushed  voice,  "  This  is  very  awkward 
indeed,  Louisa  !  How  on  earth  are  we  to  get  home  witli- 
out  any  carriage,  I  wonder  ?  I  really  believe  we  shall  have 
to  tramp  it  !  " 


mi 


; 


K  la  \i- 

IP'' 

f  ft: 


264 


r/ZB   SCALLYWAG. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

"  LE    ROI    EST    MORT  :    VIVE    LE    ROI  !  " 


f    > 


J 1.-. 


With  a  heavy  heart,  and  with  vague  forebodings  of  evil, 
Paul  tramped  wearily  home  along  the  frozen  roadway.  As 
he  neared  Plowden's  Court,  at  the  end  of  that  slow  and 
painful  march,  he  saw  for  himself  there  were  lights  in  the 
windows,  and  i-igns  within  of  great  bustle  and  commotion. 

Cold  as  it  was  and  late  at  night,  the  news  had  already 
spread  over  the  neighborhood  that  "  Gascoyne  was  gone," 
and  more  than  one  sympathizing  friend  had  risen  from  bed 
and  dropped  in  to  comfort  Faith  and  her  mother  in  their 
great  sorrow.  The  working  classes  and  the  smaller  trades- 
folk are  prompter  and  franker  in  their  expressions  of  sym- 
pathy with  one  another  than  those  whom  in  our  self-satis- 
fied way  we  call  their  betters.  They  come  to  help  in  the 
day  of  trouble,  where  servants  and  dependants  are  not 
ready  at  call  to  do  the  mere  necessary  physical  work 
entailed  on  every  house  by  moments  of  bereavement. 

At  the  door  Mr.  Solomons  was  waiting  to  receive  the 
poor  weary  young  man.  He  raised  his  hat  respectfully  as 
Paul  staggered  in.  "  Good-evening,  Sir  Paul,"  he  said, 
with  marked  courtesy.  And  that  unwonted  salute  was  the 
first  intimation  Paul  received  of  his  sudden  and  terrible 
loss  that  awful  evening. 

"  No,  no,  Mr.  Solomons,"  he  cried,  grasping  the  old  man's 
hand  with  the  fervid  warmth  which  rises  up  spontaneous 
within  us  all  at  moments  of  deep  emotion.  •*  Not  that  ! 
Not  that  !  Don't  tell  me  so,  don't  tell  me  so  !  Not  that  ! 
He  isn't  dead  !  Not  dead  !  Oh  no,  not  dead  !  Don't 
say  so  ! " 

Mr  Solomons  shook  his  head  gravely.     "  Doctor's  been 


SilL 


"/.£  RO!  EST  MORT  .     VIVE   LE  ROf!" 


26s 


)le 


Vs 
us 
t  ! 
It  ! 

Ml 


here  and  found  him  quite  dead,"  he  answered  witli  solemn 
calmness,  "  He  drove  Miss  Boyd-Galloway  back  from  the 
dean's,  through  the  snow  and  the  wind,  till  he  froze  on  the 
box.  He  was  too  ill  to  go,  and  he  died  at  his  post,  like  a 
Gascoyne  ought  to  do." 

Paul  flung  himself  back  on  a  chair  and  burst  at  once  into 
a  wild  flood  of  tears.  His  heart  was  f'lll.  He  didn't  dare 
to  ask  for  Faith  or  his  mother.  Yet  even  in  that  first  full 
flush  of  a  great  sorrow,  strange  to  say,  he  was  dimly  con- 
scious within  himself  of  that  indefinable  self-satisfaction 
which  so  often  buoys  us  up  for  the  moment  under  similar 
circumstances.  He  felt  it  would  always  be  a  comfort  to 
him  to  remember  that  he  had  done  his  very  best  to  avert 
that  terrible  incident,  had  done  his  very  best  to  take  his 
father's  place  that  night,  and  to  follow  in  his  footsteps  on 
his  last  sad  journey. 

Mr.  Solomons  moved  slowly  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 
"Sir  Paul  has  returned,"  he  called  softly  to  Faith  in  the 
room  above,  where  she  sat  and  sobbed  beside  her  dead 
father. 

And,  indeed,  from  that  timt  forth  Mr.  Solomons  seldom 
forgot  to  give  tne  new  baronet  the  full  benefit  of  his  title 
whenever  he  spoke  to  him,  and  to  exact  the  rigorous  use  of 
it  from  all  and  sundry.  It  was  part  of  his  claims  on  Paul, 
in  fact,  that  Paul  should  accept  the  heavy  burden  of  the 
baronetcy.  Meaning  to  float  him  in  the  social  and  finan- 
cial sense,  Mr.  Solomons  appreciated  the  immense  impor- 
tance of  starting  Sir  Paul  as  Sir  Paul  Gascoyne,  Baronet, 
from  the  very  beginning.  It  must  be  understood  at  the 
outset  that  this  was  a  genuine  titled  Gascoyne,  and  no 
shadow  of  a  doubt  or  an  incognito  of  any  sort  must  hang 
over  the  fact  or  the  nature  of  the  evidence.  It  was  all  very 
well  for  Sir  Emery  to  hide  his  light  under  a  bushel  in  a 
country  town  ;  but  Sir  Paul,  as  exhibited  by  his  financial 


K-  i  t  ii 


266 


77/E   SCA/J.YIVAG. 


adviser,  must  be  carefully  proclaimed  from  the  housetops 
in  the  city  of  Westminster. 

In  his  own  interests  Mr.  Solomons  was  determined  that 
everybody  should  recognize  h'x?,  proh'g^  ^^  a  man  of  fashion. 

Faith  came  down  and  threw  herself  into  her  brother's 
arms.  "  You  did  your  best,  Paul,"  she  cried,  faltering.  "  1 
know  it.     1  know  it." 

The  tears  stood  dim  in  Mr.  Solomons'  eyes.  He  could 
stand  an  execution  for  debt  with  stoical  stolidity,  but  he 
could  not  stand  this.  He  took  out  his  pocket  handkerchief 
and  retired  into  the  stairway,  leaving  brother  and  sister  to 
their  own  silent  sympathy. 

Slowly  and  gradually  it  came  home  to  each  of  them  how 
great  a  change  that  night  had  wrought  in  their  joint  exis- 
tences. The  old  life  at  Hillborough  would  now  be  broken 
up  for  them  both  altogether.  New  ways  and  fields  lay 
open  before  them. 

The  next  few  days,  indeed,  were,  of  course,  taken  up  by 
the  needful  preparations  for  Sir  Emery's  funeral.  It  was 
a  new  sensation  for  Paul  to  find  himself  the  head  of  the 
family,  with  his  mother  and  sister  dependent  upon  him  for 
aid  and  advice,  and  compelled  to  decide  all  questions  as 
they  arose  upon  his  own  responsibility.  Mr.  Solomons, 
however,  who  had  his  good  side,  though  he  kept  it  often 
most  studiously  in  the  background,  was  kindness  itself  to 
Paul  in  this  sudden  emergency.  To  say  the  truth,  he  liked 
the  young  man  ;  and,  with  his  ingrained  Jewish  respect  for 
rank,  he  was  proud  of  being  able  to  patronize  a  real  British 
baronet.  He  had  patronized  Sir  Emery  already,  to  be  sure  ; 
but  then  Sir  Emery  had  never  been  born  in  the  purple. 
He  was  at  best  but  a  country  cabman  who  had  unexpectedly 
inherited  a  barren  baronetcy.  It  was  otherwise  with  Paul. 
Mr.  Solomons  was  determined  that,  as  his  young  friend 
had  had  an  Oxford  education,  so  he  should  be  received 


/./•;  /»'('/  F.sr  JAM'/'.    I'/VK  /./•;  k'o/ r 


JO' 


ti' 


)le. 
Lily 


everywhere  from  the  very  beginning  in  his  own  proper 
place  in  English  society.  The  fact  was,  Mr.  Solomons' 
relations  with  Paul  had  made  him  feel,  at  last,  a  certain 
parental  interest  in  his  young  debtor's  position  and  pros- 
pects. Regarding  him,  at  first,  merely  in  the  I'ght  of  a 
precarious  investment,  to  be  diligently  exploited  for  Mr. 
Lionel's  ultimate  benefit,  he  had  come  in  the  end  to  regard 
him  with  some  personal  liking  and  fondness,  as  a  pupil 
with  whose  progress  in  life  he  might  be  fairly  satisfied.  So 
he  came  out  well  on  this  occasion  ;  .so  well,  indeed,  that 
for  several  days  after  the  sad  event  he  never  mentioned  to 
Paul  the  disagreeable  fact  about  his  having  neglected  lo 
pay  Sir  Emery's  life-premium  on  the  very  night  of  thai 
fatal  engagement. 

The  neglect  left  Paul  still  more  heavily  indebted  than  he 
might  otherwise  have  been.  But  as  he  had  voluntarily 
assumed  all  responsibility  for  the  debt  himself,  he  had  really 
nothing  on  this  ground  to  complain  of. 

The  funeral  was  fixed  for  Wednesday,  the  loth.  On 
Tuesday  afternoon,  as  Paul  sat  alone  in  the  little  front 
parlor  with  the  spotted  dog  on  the  mantelpiece — that 
spotted  dog  of  his  father's  that  Faith  had  so  longed  for 
years  to  remove,  and  that  she  wouldn't  now  have  removed 
from  its  familiar  place  for  untold  thousands — he  heard  a  well- 
known  sturdy  voice  inquire  of  the  stable-boy  who  lounged 
about  the  door,  "  Is  this  Sir  Paul  Gascoyne's  ?  Does  he 
happen  to  be  in  ?     Will  you  give  him  my  card  then  ■ 

With  no  shadow  of  shame  or  compunction  on  his  fac<-. 
Paul  flung  open  the  door  and  welcomed  his  old  college 
friend  into  that  dingy  little  sitting  room.  "  Why,  Thistle- 
ton,"  he  cried,  "this  is  so  kind,  so  good  of  you  !  You're 
the  only  one  of  all  my  Oxford  acquaintances  who's  come  to 
see  me,  although,  of  course,  I  didn't  expect  them.  But 
you  were  in  Yorkshire  last  week  and  meant  to  stay  there. 


!']' 


268 


'/in-:  SCALLYWAG. 


f 


What  on  earth's  brought  you  down  to  this  part  of  Eng- 
land so  suddenly  ? " 

The  blond  young  man's  face,  on  receiving  this  question, 
was  a  study  to  behold.  It  would  have  made  the  fortune 
of  a  rising  dramatic  artist.  He  changed  his  hat  in  his  hand 
awkwardly  as  he  answered  with  a  distinctly  shamefaced 
air,  "  I  thought — as  a  mark  of  respect  for  the  family — I — I 
ought  to  be  present  at  Sir  Emery's  funeral.  And,  indeed, 
my  father  and  mother  thought  that — in  view  of  existing 
and  future  circumstances — I  couldn't  possibly  absent  my- 
self." 

Paul  failed  to  grasp  the  precise  reason  for  this  interposi- 
tion on  the  part  of  the  senior  Thistletons  in  so  strictly 
private  and  personal  an  affair  as  his  father's  funeral  ;  for  as 
yet  he  had  no  idea  of  the  state  of  relations  between  Faith 
and  his  friend  ;  but  he  confined  himself  for  the  moment  to 
asking  in  some  surprise,  "Why,  how  did  you  hear  at  all 
about  my  poor  father  ?  " 

The  blond  young  man  hesitated  even  more  remarkably 
and  distinctly  than  before.  Then  he  blurted  out  the  truth 
with  that  simple-hearted  directness  of  speech  which  was 
natural  to  him,  *'  Faith  wrote  and  told  me,"  he  answered  in 
his  straightforwardness. 

It  struck  Paul  as  odd,  even  in  that  time  of  trouble,  that 
Thistleton  should  speak  of  his  sister  as  "  Faith  "  and  not 
as  "  Miss  Gascoyne,"  as  he  had  always  been  accustomed  to 
do  at  O.xford  ;  but  he  set  it  down  to  the  privilege  of  inti- 
macy with  the  family,  and  to  the  greater  frankness  of 
tongue  which  we  all  of  us  use  when  death  breaks  down  for 
a  moment  the  conventions  and  barriers  of  our  artificial  in- 
tercourse. Still,  it  certainly  did  strike  him  as  odd  that 
I'aith  should  have  found  time  at  such  a  moment  to  write  of 
rbeir  loss  to  a  mere  casual  acquaintance. 

Thistleton    rightly   interpreted   the   puzzled   look    upon 


/.A    ROl   EST  MOK  r .      V  hi' E    IE    ROll  " 


269 


!J 


Paul's  face,  and  went  on  sheepishly,  though  with  charming 
frankness,  "  I  hadn't  heard  for  several  days,  much  longer 
than  usual,  indeed,  so  I  telegraphed  night  before  last  to 
ask  the  reason." 

Then  a  light  burst  in  all  at  once  upon  Paul's  mind  ;  he 
saw  it  all,  and  was  glad  ;  but  he  forebore  to  speak  of  it 
under  existing  circumstances, 

"  Might  I  see  Faith  ?  "  the  blond  young  man  inquired 
timidly. 

"  I'll  ask  her,"  Paul  answered,  moving  slowly  up  the 
stairs  to  the  room  where  his  sister  sat  alone  in  her  grief 
with  their  mother. 

Rut  Faith  only  shook  her  head  decidedly.  *'  Not  now, 
Paul,"  she  said  ;  "  it  was  kind  of  him  to  come  ;  but  tell 
him  I  can't  see  him — till,  till,  after  to-morrow." 

•*  Perhaps  he  won't  stay,"  Paul  put  in,  without  attaching 
much  importance  himself  to  the  remark. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  Faith  answered  with  simple  confidence. 
"  Now  he's  once  come,  he'll  stop,  of  course — at  least  until 
he's  seen  me." 

Paul  went  back  to  his  friend  in  the  dull  little  parlor.  To 
his  immen.se  surprise,  Thistleton,  after  receiving  the  mes- 
sage with  a  frank,  satisfied  nod,  began  at  once  talking  about 
the  family  plans  with  an  interest  that  really  astonished  him. 
Paul  had  always  liked  the  blond  young  man,  and  he  knew 
the  blond  young  man  liked  him.  But  he  was  hardly  pre- 
pared for  so  much  personal  .sympathy  in  all  their  arrange- 
ments as  Thistleton  manifested.  The  blond  young  man 
was  most  an.Kions  to  know  where  Paul  would  live  and  what 
he  would  do  ;  whether  or  not  he  would  at  once  assume  his 
title  ;  what  would  become  of  his  mother  and  Faith  ;  and 
whether  the  family  headquarters  were  likely,  under  these 
new  circumstances,  to  be  shifted  from  Hillborough,  say,  in 
the  direction  of  London. 


I., 


m 


;   H 


27© 


Tff^.    SCATt  YWAC. 


•i'!!: 


!.: 


"i 


il 


All  these  questions  took  Paul  very  much  at  a  disadvant- 
age. Absorbed  only  in  their  own  immediate  and  personal 
loss,  he  had  found  no  time  as  yet  to  think  or  arrange  in  any 
way  about  the  future.  All  he  could  say  was  thai  he  would 
consider  these  things  at  some  later  time,  but  that  for  the 
moment  their  plans  were  wholly  undecided. 

Thistleton  sat  still  and  gazed  blankly  into  the  fire.  **  I 
shall  have  to  talk  it  over  with  Faith,  you  know,"  he  said 
quietly  at  last.  *'  I  see  many  reasons  for  taking  things 
promptly  in  hand  at  the  moment  of  the  crisis." 

"  I'm  afraid  Faith  won't  be  able  to  talk  things  over 
c'llmly  for  some  weeks  at  least,"  Paul  answered,  with  deep- 
ening wonderment.  "  This  sudden  blow,  of  course,  has 
quite  unnerved  us.  It  was  all  so  instantaneous,  so  terrible, 
so  unexpected." 

"Oh,  I'm  in  no  hurry,"  Thistleton  replied,  still  gazing 
straight  ahead  into  the  embers  of  the  fire.  "  Now  I'm  here 
I  may  as  well  stop  here  for  the  next  few  weeks  or  so. 
They've  given  me  a  very  comfortable  room  at  the  Red 
Lion.  And  one  thing's  clear,  now  your  father's  gone,  Gas- 
coyne,  you've  enough  to  do  with  those  claims  alone  ;  your 
sister  mustn't  be  allowed  to  be  a  further  burden  upon 
you." 

Paul  flushed  fiery  hot  at  that  way  of  putting  it.  He  saw 
now  quite  clearly  what  Thistleton  was  driving  at,  though 
he  didn't  know,  of  course,  what  measure  of  encouragement 
Faith  might  already  have  accorded  her  wealthy  suitor. 
Oh,  those  hateful,  hateful  claims  of  Mr.  Solomons' !  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  those,  he  might  have  answered  proudly, 
"  I  will  take  care  myself  of  my  sister's  future."  But  how 
could  he  now — he  who  was  mortgaged,  twenty  years  deep, 
for  all  his  possible  earnings  to  that  close-fisted  taskmaster  ! 
The  very  thought  of  it  make  him  hot  and  cold  alternately 
with  deep  humiliation. 


THE    mrfiBl  F.    pr/^STS. 


ayi 


All  he  could  do  was  to  murmur,  half  aloud,  "  Faith  can 
almost  support  herself,  even  as  it  is,  by  her  salary  as  a 
schoolmistress." 

Thistleton  answered  him  very  decisively  this  time. 
"  Not  as  she  ought  to  be  supported,  my  dear  fellow,"  he 
said  in  a  firm  tone  of  voice,  "(iascoyne,  you  and  I  have 
always  been  friends,  and  at  a  time  like  this  we  may  surely 
speak  our  minds  out  to  one  another.  You'll  have  enough 
to  do  to  keep  yourself  and  mother,  let  alone  the  claims  ; 
and  I  know  how  they  weigh  upon  you.  But  Faith  mustn't 
dream  of  trying  to  live  upon  what  she  earns  herself.  I 
could  never  stand  that.  It  would  drive  me  wild  to  thnik 
she  should  even  attempt  it.  This  has  made  a  great  change 
in  the  position  of  all  of  you.  I  think  when  I  talk  it  all  over 
with  Faith  she'll  see  the  subject  in  the  same  light  as  I  do." 


;,  *' 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 


THE    BUBBLE    BURSTS. 


The  morning  after  the  funeral  Paul  went  down,  by  Mr. 
Solomons*  special  desire,  to  the  office  in  the  High  Street 
for  a  solemn  consultation.  Mr.  Solomons  wished  to  see 
him  "  on  important  business,"  he  said  ;  and  Paul,  though 
weary  and  sick  at  heart,  had  been  too  long  accustomed  to 
accept  Mr.  Solomons'  commands  as  law  to  think  of  de- 
murring to  a  request  so  worded. 

As  !ie  entered  Mr.  Solomons  rose  to  greet  him  with 
stately  politeness,  and  handed  him  solemnly  a  little  oblong 
packet,  which  felt  like  a  box  done  up  in  paper.  Paul 
opened  it  vaguely,  seeing  so  much  was  expected  of  him, 
and  found  inside,  to  his  immense  surprise,  a  hundred  visit- 


<n 


I 


i» 


;  •'  w 


:(:i.      !l 


J 


k  \ 


a73 


THE   SCALIYWAG, 


ing-cards,  inscribed  in  ropperplatc  •'  Sir  Pniil  Gascoyne," 
in  neat  small  letters. 

"What  are  these,  Mr.  Solomons?"  he  asked,  taken 
aback  for  the  moment. 

Mr.  Solomons,  rubbing  his  hands  with  unction,  was 
evidently  very  well  pleased  at  his  own  cleverness  and  fore- 
thought. ••  They're  a  little  present  I  wished  to  make  you, 
Sir  Paul,"  he  answered,  laying  great  stress  upon  that  em- 
phatic prefix  of  honor.  "  You  see,  I  think  it  necessary,  as 
part  of  my  scheme  for  our  joint  benefit,  that  you  should  at 
once  assume  your  proper  |)lace  in  the  world  and  receive 
recognition  at  the  hands  of  society.  I  desire  that  you 
should  make  a  feature  of  your  title  at  once  ;  that  you 
should  be  known  to  all  England  from  the  very  outset  as 
Sir  Paul  Gascoyne,  Baronet,"  He  spoke  it  pompously,  like 
one  who  basked  in  the  reflected  glory  of  that  high-sounding 
social  designation. 

"  I  hate  it,"  Paul  blurted  out,  unable  to  restrain  his  enio- 
tion  any  longer.  "Mr.  Solomons,  I  can't  bear  the  horrid 
business.  It's  a  hollow  mockery  for  a  man  like  me.  What's 
the  use  of  a  title  to  a  fellow  without  a  penny,  who's  bur- 
dened  with  more  debt  than  he  can  ever  pay,  to  start 
with  ? " 

Mr.  Solomons  drew  back  as  if  he  had  been  stung.  He 
could  hardly  believe  his  ears.  That  a  man  should  wish 
deliberately  to  shuffle  off  the  honor  of  a  baronetcy  was  to 
him,  in  his  simplicity,  well  nigh  inconceivable.  Not  that, 
for  the  moment,  he  took  in  to  the  full  Paul's  actual  mean- 
ing. That  his  pet  design,  the  cherished  scheme  of  years, 
could  be  upset  offhand  by  the  recalcitrant  obstinacy  of  a 
hot-headed  youth  just  fresh  from  college,  lay  hardly  within 
the  sphere  of  his  comprehension.  He  contented  himself 
for  the  time  with  thrusting  his  thumbs  into  the  armholes  of 
his  waistcoat,  protruding  his  already  too  obvious   watch- 


THE   fiCfiBl E   HIRSTS. 


^li 


pocket,  and  observing  jauntily,  *'  I'hal's  exactly  wliy  you've 
got  to  make  the  most  ul'  the  title,  Sir  Paul.  You  must  use 
it  as  your  capital — your  stock-in-tr.ulf.  So  l'»ii<r  as  your 
father  lived,  ol  course,  we  couki  do  very  liulc  ;  we  could 
only  point  to  you  as  a  prospect ivt;  luiroiiet.  Now  that  Sir 
Kmery's  dead  and  gone,  poor  gentleman,  the  case  is  altered  : 
we  can  put  you  forward  as  the  actual  possessor  of  the  (ias- 
coyne  title.  It's  extremely  fortunate  this  should  have  hap- 
pened (as  it  had  got  to  happen)  so  early  in  the  year,  before 
the  Peerages  are  out — they  don't  publish  them  till  March — 
and  I  telegraphed  off  full  details  yesterday  to  the  different 
editors,  so  that  your  name  may  appear  in  its  proper  place 
in  due  course  in  the  new  issues.  Ihere's  nothing  like 
taking  time  by  the  forelock,  you  know,  Sir  P.iul  ;  there's 
nothing  on  earth  like  taking  time  by  the  forelock."  And 
Mr.  Solomons,  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire  and  his 
thumbs  in  his  annholes  like  a  Hritish  churchwarden,  raised 
himself  gently  on  the  tips  of  his  toes,  and  let  his  heels  go 
down  again  with  an  emphatic  snap,  as  he  pursed  up  his  lips 
into  a  most  determined  attitude. 

Paul  saw  the  time  for  temporizing  had  passed.  While 
his  father  lived,  he  hadn't  dared  to  explain  to  Mr,  Solomons 
the  simple  fact  that  he  couldn't  and  wouldn't  sell  himself 
for  money  to  any  woman  living,  lest  he  should  break  his 
father's  heart  by  that  plain  avowal.  But  now  it  would  be 
flat  cowardice  to  delay  the  confession  one  day  longer.  Kor 
Mr.  Solomons'  sake  he  must  take  the  bull  by  the  horns. 
Already  Mr.  Solomons  had  put  himself  to  needless  expense 
in  haviug  those  cards  printed  and  in  telegraphing  to  the 
editors  of  the  various  Peerages,  on  the  strength  of  an  under- 
standing which  ought  long  ago  to  have  been  broken. 
There  was  no  help  for  it  now.     He  must  prick  the  bubble. 

So  he  seated  himself  nervously  in  the  office  chair,  and 
with   hesitating   speech,  amid  awkward  pauses,  began  to 


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74 


THE    "iCAllYWAG. 


break  the  news  as  gently  as  he  could  to  poor  startled  Mr. 
Solomons.  He  told  him  how,  as  long  as  his  father  lived,  he 
had  felt  it  his  duty  to  keep  silence  on  the  matter.  He  ex- 
plained to  him  in  plain  and  straii>hlfor\var(l  terms  how  the 
plan  had  been  devised,  and  broached,  and  furthered  when 
he  himself  was  too  young  to  understand  and  enter  into  its 
sinister  significance  ;  and  how,  as  soon  as  he  had  attained 
to  years  of  iliscretion,  and  tompreheniied  the  plot  in  its 
true  colors,  a  revulsion  of  feeling  had  set  in  which  made  it 
impossible  for  him  now  to  carry  out  in  full  the  implied 
engagement.  He  begged  Mr.  Solomons  to  observe  that  as 
soon  as  he  had  clearly  realized  this  change  of  front  he  had 
ceased  to  accept  a  single  penny  of  his  task-master's  money, 
but  had  worked  his  own  way  by  unheard-of  effort  through 
his  last  two  terms  for  his  degree  at  Oxford.  Finally,  he 
assured  Mr.  Solomons,  with  many  piteous  assurances,  that 
he  would  never  be  forgetful  of  the  claims  upon  his  purse, 
his  time,  and  his  labor,  but  would  toil  like  a  slave,  month 
after  month,  and  year  after  year,  till  he  had  repaid  him  in 
full  to  the  uttermost  farthing. 

How  much  it  cost  Paul  to  make  this  bold  avowal  nobody 
but  himself  could  ever  have  realized.  He  felt  at  the  mo- 
ment as  though  he  was  shirking  the  dearest  obligations  in 
life  and  turning  his  back  most  ungratefully  upon  his  friend 
and  benefactor.  As  he  went  on  and  on,  floundering  deeper 
and  deeper  in  despondency  each  moment,  while  Mr.  Solo- 
mons stood  there  silent  and  grim  by  the  fireplace,  with  his 
jaw  now  dropping  loose  and  his  thumbs  relaxing  their  hold 
upon  the  armholes — his  voice  faltered  with  the  profundity 
of  his  regret,  and  big  beads  of  nervous  dew  gathered  thick 
upon  his  forehead.  He  knew  he  was  disappointing  the 
hopes  of  a  lifetime,  and  shaking  his  own  credit  at  every 
word  he  spoke  with  his  powerful  creditor.  v 

As  for  Mr.  Solomons,  the  startleci  old  man  heard  him  out 


THE    Pl'HfilE    RfNSTS. 


275 


to  the  bitfer  end  without  once  interposing  a  single  word  of 
remark — without  so  much  as  a  nod  or  a  shake  of  disappro- 
bation. He  heard  him  out  in  the  grimmest  of  grim  silences, 
letting  Paul  Houndcr  on,  unchecked  and  unaided,  through 
his  long  rambling  explanation  of  his  conduct  and  motives. 
Once  or  twice,  indeed,  Paul  paused  in  his  speech  and 
glanced  up  at  him  appealingly  ;  but  Mr.  Solomons,  staring 
at  him  still  with  a  fi.xed  hard  stare,  vouchsafed  not  even  to 
relax  his  stern  face,  and  gazed  on  in  blank  astonishment  at 
this  strange  case  of  mental  aberration  gradually  unfolding 
itself  in  the  flesh  before  him.  At  last,  when  Paul  had  ex- 
hausted all  his  stock  of  arguments,  excuses,  and  reasons, 
Mr.  Solomons  moved  forward  three  deliberate  paces,  and. 
gazing  straight  down  into  the  young  man's  eyes,  said  slowly 
and  solemnly  in  the  scriptural  phrase,  *'  Paul,  Paul,  thou 
art  beside  thyself." 

"  Mr.  Solomons,"  Paul  answered  with  a  cold  shudder 
down  his  back,  '*  I  mean  what  I  say.  You  shall  never  lose 
a  penny  of  all  you've  advanced  me.  You  meant  it  well. 
You  meant  it  for  my  advantage.  I  know  all  that.  But  I 
can  never  consent  to  marry  an  heiress,  whoever  she  may  be. 
I'll  work  my  fingers  to  the  bone,  day  and  night,  the  year 
round,  to  pay  you  back  ;  but  I'll  never,  never,  never  con- 
sent to  pay  you  back  the  way  you  intended." 

"You  mean  it?"  Mr.  Solomons  asked,  sitting  down  in 
another  chair  by  his  side  and  regarding  him  closely  with 
curious  attention.  "  Sir  Paul  Gascoyne,  you  really  mean  it  ? " 

'•  Yes,  I  really  mean  it,  Mr.  Solomons,"  Paul  answered 
remorsefully. 

To  his  immense  astonishment,  Mr.  Solomons  buried  his 
face  in  his  arms  on  the  office  table  and  sobbed  inarticu- 
lately, through  floods  of  tears,  in  dead  silence,  for  some 
minutes  together. 

This  strange  proceeding,  so  utterly  unexpected,  broke 


* 


*fi 


-\} 


VT'm 


27^ 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


down  for  the  moment  Paul's  courage  altogether.  "  Oh, 
Mr.  Solomons,"  he  cried,  in  a  frenzy  of  regret,  '*  I  knew  I 
should  be  disappointing  you  very  much  indeed — I  knew 
that,  of  course  ;  but  I  never  imagined  you'd  feel  like  this 
about  it." 

Mr.  Solomons  rocked  himself  up  and  down  in  his  chair 
solemnly  for  a  considerable  time  without  making  any  answer. 
Then  he  rose  slowly,  unlocked  his  safe,  and  took  out  the 
well-thumbed  bundle  of  notes  and  acceptances.  One  by 
one  he  counted  them  all  over,  as  if  to  make  sure  they  were 
really  there,  with  a  regretful  touch  ;  after  which,  regarding 
them  tenderly,  as  a  mother  regards  her  favorite  child,  he 
locked  them  all  up  once  more,  and  flung  himself  back  in 
the  office  chair  with  an  air  of  utter  and  abject  despondency. 
"  As  long  as  you  live,  Sir  Paul,"  he  said  slowly,  "  handi- 
capped as  you  are,  unless  you  do  as  we  mean  you  to  do. 
you  can  never,  never,  never  repay  them," 

"  I'll  try  my  hardest,  at  least,"  Paui  answered  sturdily. 

"  There's  the  horses  and  cabs,"  Mr.  Solomons  went  on, 
as  if  musing  to  himself;  "but  they  won't  fetch  much.  As 
for  the  furniture  in  the  house,  it  wouldn't  pay  the  quarter's 
rent,  I  expect ;  and  to  that  extent,  the  landlord,  of  course, 
has  a  prior  claim  upon  it.  In  fact,  it's  an  insolvent  estate 
— that's  the  long  and  the  short  of  it." 

•\My  father's  life  was  insured,"  Paul  ventured  to  suggest. 

Mr.  Solomons  hesitated  with  natural  delicacy.  "  Well,  to 
tell  you  the  truth.  Sir  Paul,"  he  answered  after  a  long  pause, 
"the  premium  was  due  the  day  before  your  father's  un- 
fortunate death  ;  and  I  neglected  to  pay  it.  I  meant  to  do 
so  the  very  next  morning  ;  but  was  too  late.  But  I  didn't 
like  to  mention  the  fact  to  you  before  in  the  midst  of  so 
much  other  personal  trouble."  ^ 

•*  That  was  very  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Solomons."  Paul  put  in, 
in  a  very  low  voice. 


THE   BUBBLE   BUh'STS. 


277 


Mr.  Solomons  ran  his  fat  hand  through  his  curly  black 
hair,  now  deeply  grizzled. 

"  Not  at  all,  Sir  Paul,"  he  answered,  "  not  at  all.  Of 
course,  I  couldn't  dream  of  obtruding  it  on  you  at  «'ich  a 
time.  But  what  I  was  thinking's  this  :  that  the  failure  of 
the  policy  largely  increases  the  amount  of  your  indebted- 
ness. It  was  '  joMitly  and  severally  *  from  the  beginning, 
you  remember  ;  and  when  you  came  of  age  you  took  the 
entire  responsibility  upon  yourself  in  this  very  room  here." 
And  .Mr.  Solomons  walked  once  more  toward  the  safe  in  the 
corner,  as  if  to  assure  himself  again  of  the  safety  at  least  of 
those  precious  papers. 

"  I  admit  it  to  the  full,"  Paul  answered  frankly. 

Mr.  Solomons  turned  upon  him  with  unexpected  gen- 
tleness. 

*'  Sir  Paul,"  he  said  seriously,  "  my  dear  Sir  Paul,  it  isn't 
so  much  that  :  that's  not  the  worst  of  it.  It's  the  other 
disappointment  I  mind  the  most — the  strictly  personal  and 
private  disappointment.  The  money  I'll  get  paid  back  in 
the  end  ;  or  if  I  don't  live  to  see  it  paid  back,  why,  Leo  will, 
and  I  always  regarded  it  as  a  long  investment  for  Leo.  A 
man  sinks  his  money  in  land  for  the  rise  as  long  as  that, 
every  bit,  and  is  satisfied  if  his  children  come  in  for  the 
benefit  of  it.  But,  Sir  Paul,  I  thought  of  you  always  as  a 
success  in  life — as  great  and  rich — as  married  to  a  lady 
you  ought  to  marry — as  holding  your  own  in  the  county 
and  the  country.  I  thought  of  you  as  sitting  in  Parliament 
for  a  division  of  Surrey.  I  thought  I'd  have  lielped  to 
make  you  all  that ;  and  I  thought  you'd  feel  I'd  had  a  hand 
in  doing  it.  Instead  of  that,  I've  only  hung  a  weight  like  a 
millstone  round  your  neck  that  I  never  intended — a  weight 
that  you'll  never  be  able  to  get  rid  of.  Sir  Paul,  Sir  Paul, 
it's  a  terrible  disappointment." 

Paul  sat  there  long,  talking  the  matter  over   from  every 


M^ 


278 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


possible  point  of  view,  now  perfectly  friendly,  bui  never 
getting  any  nearer  to  a  reconciliation  of  their  conflicting 
ideas.  Indeed,  how  conk!  lie  ?  When  he  rose  to  go,  Mr. 
Solomons  grasped  his  hand  hard. 

"  Sir  Paul,"  he  said  with  emotion,  '*  this  is  a  hanl  day's 
work.  \'oii've  undone  the  task  I've  been  toiling  at  for 
years.  IJut,  perhaps,  in  time  you'll  change  your  mind. 
Perhaps  some  day  you'll  see  some  lady " 

Paul  cut  him  short  at  once.  "  No,  never,"  he  said. 
"Never." 

Mr.  Solomons  shook  his  hand  hard  once  more. 

*•  Well,  never  mind,"  he  s^.id  ;  "  remember,  I  don't  want  in 
any  way  to  press  you.  Repay  me  whenever  and  how- 
ever you  can  :  it's  all  running  t)n  at  intf*rest  meanwhile, 
renewable  annually.  Work  hard  and  pay  me,  but  not  too 
hard.  I  trust  you  still,  Sir  Paul,  and  I  know  1  can  trust 
you." 

As  soon  as  Paul  was  gone,  Mr.  Solomons  could  only 
relieve  his  mind  by  taking  the  first  train  up  to  town,  and 
pouring  the  whole  strange,  incredible  story  into  the  sympa- 
thetic ears  of  his  nephew,  Mr.  Lionel. 

Lionel  Solomons  listened  to  his  uncle's  narrative  with 
supercilious  disdain  ;  then  he  rose,  with  his  sleek  thumbs 
stuck  into  his  waistcoat  pockets  and  his  fat  fingers  lolling 
over  his  well-covered  hips,  in  an  attitude  expressive  of  capi- 
talist indifference  to  such  mere  sentimentalism  as  Paul  Gas- 
coyne  had  been  guilty  of. 

**  The  fellow's  of  age,  and  he's  signed  for  the  lot  ;  that's 
one  comfort,"  he  observed  complacently.  "  But  I've  got 
no  patience  with  such  pig-headed  nonsense  myself.  What's 
the  good  of  being  born  to  a  baronetcy,  I  should  like  to 
know,  if  you  aint  going  to  make  any  social  use  of  it  ?" 

•*  It's  chucking  it  away — just  chucking  it  away,  that's 
true,"  his  uncle  assented. 


Till'.    HUH  lit. I'.    Hl'NSTS. 


-•79 


Mr.  Lionel  paused,  and  ran  one  plump  hand  easily 
through  his  well-oiled  curls.  "  P'or  my  part,"  he  said,  '*  if 
ever  those  papers  (:(»nie  to  me " 

"  They'll  all  come  to  y(Hi,  Leo — they'll  all  come  to  you," 
Hiis  uncle  put  in  alfeclioiiatcly.  '•  What  else  do  I  toil  and 
moil,  and  slave  and  save  for  ? " 

Mr.  Lionel  faintly  bowed  a  gracious  acquiescence.  "  If 
ever  those  papers  come  tt)  me,"  he  continued,  unheeding 
ilie  interruption,  "  I'll  not  let  him  off  one  farthing  of  the 
lot,  now  he's  signed  tor  'em  all  after  coming  of  age,  not  if 
he  works  his  lifelong  to  pay  me  off  the  whole — principal 
and  interest,  lie  shall  suffer  for  his  confounded  nonsense, 
he  shall.  If  he  won't  pay  up,  as  lie  ought  to  pay  up,  in  a 
lump  at  once,  and  if  he  won't  go  to  work  the  right  way  to 
make  himself  solvent,  I'll  grind  him  and  dun  him  and  make 
h's  life  a  burden  to  him,  till  he's  paid  it  all  to  the  uttermost 
farthing.  He's  :.  fool  of  a  sentimentalist,  that's  just  what 
he  is — with  an  American  girl  ready  to  pay  him  a  good 
round  sum  for  the  title,  as  I've  reason  to  believe,  if  he'll 
only  marry  her." 

*'  Leo  !  "  his  uncle  exclaimed  disapprovingly. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,"  the  nephew  continued,  tilting 
himself  on  tiptoe,  and  shutting  his  mouth  hard  till  the  lips 
pursed  up  to  express  decision  of  character  ;  "  the  fellow's 
in  love  with  some  penniless  girl  or  other.  I've  known  that 
a'long  time  ;  he  was  always  getting  letters  from  some  place 
in  Cornwall,  in  a  woman's  hand,  that  he  put  away  unopened 
and  read  in  his  bedroom  ;  and  he's  going  to  throw  over- 
board your  interest  and  his  own,  just  to  satisfy  his  own 
foolish  sentimental  fancy.  I  could  forgive  him  for  throw- 
ing yours  overboard  for  a  pretty  face,  that's  only  human  ; 
but  to  throw  over  his  own,  why,  it's  simply  inexcusable. 
He  shall  pay  for  this,  though.  If  ever  I  come  in  to  those 
papers,  he  shall  pay  for  it." 


\ 


,  s 


f 


/ 


111 


J  (4    U 


j60 


Till.    SCALI  VWAC. 


"  Leo,"  the  elder  man  said,  leaning  b.ick  in  his  chair  and 
fixing  his  eye  full  upon  his  uncompromising  nephew. 

'*  Well,  sir,"  Mr.  Lionel  answered,  replacing  his  thumbs 
in  his  waistcoat  pocket. 

"  Leo,"  Mr.  Solomons  repeated  slowly,  "  I  often  wish  you' 
were  a   little   more   like  Paul.     I  often  wish  I'd  sent  you 
instead  of  him  to  Oxford  to  college." 

"Well,  /  don't,  then,"  Mr.  Lionel  responded,  with  a  short 
toss  of  his  head.  "  I'm  precious  glad  you  put  me  where  1 
am,  in  the  proper  place  for  a  man  to  make  money  in — in 
the  City." 


CH.APTLR    XXXllL 


FASHION  A  HLK    INTKLLIGENCE. 


Thi 


of  Si 


ited  the   blond 


ung  man  s  com- 
plaint to  a  T.  Thistleton  spent  some  two  or  three  weeks 
at  Hillborough,  and  seemed  in  no  very  great  hurry  to  return 
to  the  bleak  north  from  his  comfortable  quarters  at  the 
Red  Lion.  Meanwhile,  Paul  was  busy  clearing  up  his 
father's  affairs,  selling  what  few  effects  there  remained  to 
sell,  and  handing  over  the  proceeds,  after  small  debts  were 
paid,  as  remnant  of  the  insolvent  estate,  to  Mr.  Solomons. 
Mr.  Solomons  received  the  sum  with  grim  satisfaction  ;  it 
was  a  first  instalment  of  those  terrible  claims  of  his,  and  bet- 
ter than  nothing  ;  so  he  proceeded  to  release  a  single  small 
note  accordingly,  which  he  burned  in  the  office  fire  before 
Paul's  very  face  with  due  solemnity.  "I'hen,  as  if  to  impress 
on  his  young  friend's  mind  the  magnitude  of  the  amount 
that  still  remained  unpaid,  he  counted  over  the  rest  of  the 
bills  in  long  array,  jointly  and  severally,  and  locked  them 
up  once  more  with  his  burglar-proof  key — Chubb's  best 
design — in  that  capacious  safe  of  his. 


FA  SHIONA  Rl.R  IN  TF.LUGRNCE. 


381 


Much  yet  remained  for  Paul  to  arrange.  Tlie  family  had 
now  to  be  organized  on  a  fresh  basis  ;  for  it  was  clear  that 
in  future  the  new  baronet  must  support  his  mother  and,  to 
some  extent,  apparently,  his  sister  also.  His  own  wish, 
indeed,  was  that  they  should  both  accompany  him  to  Lon- 
don ;  but  to  that  revolutionary  proposal  his  mother  would 
never  for  a  moment  accede.  She  had  lived  all  her  life  long 
at  Hillborough,  she  said,  among  her  own  people,  and  she 
couldn't  be  dragged  away  now  in  her  old  age  from  her 
husband's  grave  and  her  accustomed  surroundings.  Paul 
thought  it  best,  therefore,  to  arrange  for  a  couple  of  room;i 
in  a  cottage  in  Plowden's  Court,  hard  by,  where  Faith  and 
she  might  take  up  their  abode  for  the  present. 

It  was  only  for  the  present,  however,  so  far  as  Faith  was 
concerned.  For  before  Thistleton  left  Hillborough  he  had 
sat  one  afternoon  with  Faith  in  the  bare  little  parlor,  and 
there,  before  the  impassive  face  of  the  spotted  dog,  once 
more  discussed  that  important  question  which  he  had 
broached  to  her  last  spring  in  the  flowery  meadows  at  En- 
sham.  At  first,  of  course,  Faith  would  have  nothing  to  say 
to  any  such  subversive  scheme.  She  wouldn't  leave  her 
mother,  she  said,  alone  in  her  widowhood.  She  must  stay 
with  her  and  comfort  her,  now  nobody  else  was  left  to  help 
her.  But  Thistleton  had  a  strong  card  to  play  this  time  in 
the  necessity  for  relieving  Paul  of  any  unnecessary  burden. 
"  Faith,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand  in  his  own  persuasively 
(there  is  much  virtue  in  a  gentle  pressure  of  the  human 
hand),  "  you  know  you  as  good  as  promised  me  at  Oxford, 
and  we  only  put  it  off  till  a  more  convenient  season." 

"  Why,  I  never  promised  you,  Mr.  Thistleton,"  Faith  re- 
torted, half  angry. 

"  I  said,  you  as  good  as  promised  /«(?,"  the  blond  young 
man  corrected,  unperturbed.  "  We  left  it  open.  But  now, 
you  know,  Paul's  left  the  sole  support  of  the  entire  family, 


.  I 


a:: 


.  Ji 


■'.      i 


383 


Tin.    SCAIJ.YWAC. 


and  it  becomes  your  duty  to  try  and  relieve  him  as  far  as 
possible.  If  you  and  I  were  married,  your  mother  could 
often  come  to  stop  with  us  for  a  time — in  Sherticld  or  Lon- 
don ;  and,  at  any  rate,  I'aul  would  be  freed  from  all  anxiety 
on  your  account.  I'or  my  part,  I  think  it's  a  duty  you  owe 
him." 

"  I  won't  marry  anyone  as  a  duty  to  Parul,"  Faith  ex- 
claimed firmly,  bridling  up  like  a  (iascoyne,  and  trying  to 
withdraw  her  fingers  from  the  hand  that  imprisoned  them. 

"  I  don't  ask  you  to,"  Thistleton  answered,  with  another 
soothing  movement  of  that  consolatory  palm.  **  You  know 
very  well  it  isn't  that  :  1  want  you  for  yourself.  I  tele- 
gra|)hed  to  my  people  last  spring,  'the  lady  accepts,  but  defers 
for  the  present ';  so  you  see  the  quesion  of  marrying  me  was 
settled  long  ago.  It's  only  the  (piestion  of  ivhen  that  we  have 
to  talk  about  now.  And  I  say  this  is  a  very  convenient 
time,  because  it'll  make  it  a  great  deal  easier  for  Paul  to 
arrange  about  your  mother  and  himself  comfortably." 

"  There's  something  in  that,"  Faith  admitted  with  a 
grudging  assent. 

So  the  end  of  it  all  was  that,  after  many  protests,  Faith 
gave  in  at  last  to  a  proposal  to  be  married  in  March — a  very 
quiet  wedding,  of  course,  because  of  their  deep  mourning  ; 
but,  as  Thistleton  justly  remarked,  with  a  triumphant  sigh 
of  relief,  a  wedding's  a  wedding,  however  quiet  you  make 
it,  and  it  was  Faith,  not  the  festivities,  that  he  himself  at- 
tached the  greatest  importance  to. 

At  the  end  of  three  weeks,  therefore,  the  blond  young 
man  returned  to  Yorkshire  with  victory  in  his  van  (what- 
ever that  may  be) ;  and  Mrs.  Thistleton,  senior,  was  in  a 
position  to  call  upon  all  her  neighbors  in  Sheffield — master- 
cutlers'  wives  every  one  of  them  to  a  woman — with  the 
proud  announcement  that  her  son  Charles  was  to  be  married 
in  March  to  the  sister  of  his  Oxford  friend,  Sir  Paul  Gas- 


\ 


F.tSI/lOXAftl.E   LVTELfJCEXCR. 


2«3 


a 

ir- 
le 


coyne,  Barotict,  who  had  lately  siicrcrdrd  to  his  father's 
title.  And  all  the  other  ladies  in  Shcfticld  looked  out  the 
baronetcy  in  Dcbrett  forthwith,  as  in  duty  hound  ;  and 
when  they  found  it  was  (juite  an  ancient  creation,  of  seven- 
teenth century  date,  anil  unconnected  with  cutlery,  were 
ready  to  die  with  envy  to  think  that  that  fat  old  Mrs. 
Thistleton,  a  person  in  no  wise  richer  or  more  disiin- 
j^uisht'd  than  themselves,  should  become  connected  at  last 
with  most  undoubted  aristocracy. 

At  Hillborough,  meanwhile,  the  sister  and  daughtef  of 
those  noble  fourteenth  anil  fifteenth  baronets  had  a  busy 
time  in  her  own  small  room  making  such  |)rei)arations  as 
she  w.i  able  for  that  quiet  wedding,  wliich  must  never- 
iheless  ia\  the  family  resources  to  the  very  utmost.  Indeed, 
it  gave  Paul  no  small  qualms  of  conscience  to  buy  the  strictly 
necessary  for  so  important  an  occasion  ;  for  how  could  he 
devote  to  his  sister's  needful  outfit — the  outfit  indispensable 
U)V  the  wedding-day  itself,  if  she  was  not  to  put  the  Thistle- 
ton  family  to  shame — a  single  penny  of  his  precarious  earn- 
ings, without  neglecting  the  just  claims  of  Mr.  Solomons? 
Paul  felt  even  more  painfully  than  ever  before  how  he  was 
tied  hand  and  foot  to  his  remorseless  creditor.  It  was 
impossible  for  him  to  spend  money  on  anything  beyond 
the  barest  necessaries  without  feeling  he  was  wronging  his 
universal  assignee. 

However,  he  put  it  to  himself  on  this  special  occasion 
that  for  Faith  to  be  married,  and  to  be  married  well,  was, 
after  all,  the  very  best  thing  in  the  end  for  Mr.  Solomons' 
interests.  It  would  leave  him  freer  to  earn  money  with 
which  ultimately  to  repay  those  grinding  claims  ;  and  so  he 
judged  he  might  honestly  devote  part  of  his  still  very 
modest  income  to  buying  what  was  most  indispensable 
for  Faith's  wedding.  Faith  herself,  with  the  help  of  the 
little  dressmaker  from  the  neighboring  court,  would  do  all 


^ 


Li 


1 

4-1 


384 


THE   SCM.l.YWAG. 


the  rest ;  and,  fotttmately,  their  mourniiijr  gave  them  a 
good  excuse  for  making  the  wcdtlinj;  preparations  on  the 
Bniallest  possible  scale  of  expenditure  under  the  circum- 
stances. 

So  as  soon  as  cvcrythins;  was  arrmv^'cd  at  IIiIII)orou{Th 
and  Faith  and  her  mother  fairly  scltlt'd  into  modest  lod;;- 
inj^s,  Paul  returned  once  more  for  a  ilay  to  his  rooms  in 
Timlico.  Hut  it  was  only  in  order  to  remove  liis  hooks  and 
l)('h)n;;ings  from  the  chamhcrs  he  shared  with  Mr.  Lionel 
S()h)mons  to  a  new  achlress  across  the  ( ily.  The  welcome 
change  had  been  forced  U|)on  him  by  his  interview  with  his 
old  provider.  Mr.  Lionel's  society  had  never  been  agree- 
able to  him  ;  and  now  that  he  had  cleared  up  matters  with 
the  uncle  at  llillborough,  I'aul  saw  no  reason  why  he  should 
any  longer  put  up  with  the  nephew's  company  in  London. 
Besir^  }s,  lie  contemplated  now  living  on  a  still  more  modest 
basis  than  before,  since  it  would  be  needful  for  him  in  future 
to  support  his  mother  as  well  as  himself  out  of  his  journal- 
i.stic  earnings. 

Mr.  Lionel  met  his  proposals  for  removal  with  a  shrug 
cf  contempt.  '*  I  suppose,  now  you're  a  baronet,"  he  said, 
just  suppressing  a  decent  sneer,  •'  you  think  yourself  too 
fine  to  associate  any  longer  with  City  gentlemen  ? " 

"On  the  contrary,"  Paul  answered;  "  now  that  I  shall 
have  to  keep  my  mother  as  well  as  myself,  I  must  manage 
to  do  with  smaller  and  cheaper  lodgings." 

"  W  l|,  you're  a  devilish  odd  fellow!"  Mr.  Lionel 
remarked,  with  a  cheerful  smile,  provoked  in  part  by  th-i 
sight  of  an  embossed  coronet  that  just  peeped  from  the 
corner  of  a  dainty  note  on  the  mantelpiece.  "  If  /  were 
a  baronet,  I  wouldn't  do  like  you,  you  may  bet  your  last 
sixpence.  If  I  didn't  intend  to  marry  tin,  at  any  rate  I'd 
go  in  for  making  money  in  a  modest  way  as  a  guinea-pig." 

Paul's  ignorance  of  City  ways  was  so  profound  that  he 


iii 


FA Sf/IOXA Hl.E  IX Tr.l.l.liil. XCE, 


r  •• 


285 


1    )■ 

I 


answered  with  a  puzzloil  expression  of  countenance  :  •♦  What 
/.»•  a  guinea-pi^  ?  " 

••A  j;uii>capi|^,"  Mr.  Lionel  contlesctMuled  Jo  explain, 
gaxin^  ilown  with  a|)prol)ati()n  at  his  own  well-fiiiod  w..isl. 
coat  ;  "  a  ){uinea-pi^  is  a  >;cntkniait  of  birth,  rank,  title,  or 
positif  n,  wh(.  a(:(;e[)ls  a  seat  at  a  boaril  as  director  of  a 
company,  which  he  j^narantees  by  his  nainr,  receiving  in 
return  a  jjuinea  a  day  every  time  he  allciids  a  meeting  of 
the  directorate,  K')*-  example,  let's  suppose  1  want  to  start 
an  Automatic  Pork  We  Company,  or  a  Universal  Artificial 
(inano  Supply  Asst  ciation,  I.imiti'd.  Very  well,  then  :  1 
promote  the  company  myself,  and  get  two  or  three  (!ity 
people — good  men,  of  course — to  back  me  up  in  it.  Aiul 
1  .isk  you  to  let  me  piiiit  your  name  at  the  head  of  the  list. 
Directors  :  Sir  I'aul  (lascoyne,  Hart.  ;  Timothy  Twells, 
l')s(piirc  (l" wells,  'I'weinlow,  and  Handsomebody)  ;  and  so 
forth  and  so  forth.  Vou  give  your  name  and  you  draw 
your  guinea.  We  consider  the  advertisement  worth  to  us 
that  amount.  And  a  person  who  lives  by  so  lending  his 
name  to  industrial  undertakings  is  called  a  guinea-pig." 

*'  But  I  couldn't  be  a  director  of  a  public  company,"  Paul 
answereil,  smiling.  "  I  don't  know  anything  at  all  about 
business." 

"Of  course  not,"  Mr.  Lionel  retorted.  **  That's  just 
where  it  is.  If  you  did,  you'd  be  meddling  and  incpnritig 
into  the  affair.  That's  exactly  the  good  of  you.  What  we 
particularly  recpiire  in  an  ideal  guinea-pig  is  that  he  should 
attend  his  meeting  and  take  his  fee  and  ask  no  questions. 
Otherwise,  he's  apt  to  be  a  confounded  nuisance  to  the 
working  directorate." 

"But  I  call  that  dishonest,"  Paul  exclaimed  warmly.  "  A 
man  lends  his  name,  and  his  title  f  he  has  one,  if  I  under- 
stand what  you  mean,  in  order  to  induce  the  public  at  large 
to  believe  this  is  a  solid  concern,  with  an  influential  board 


>  '     il 


286 


THE  SCALLYWAG. 


of  directors  ;  and  you  want  him  to  do  it  for  a  guinea  a  day 
without  so  much  as  inquiring  into  the  solidity  of  the  under- 
taking ! " 

Mr.  Lionel's  face  relaxed  into  a  broad  smile.  "Well, 
you  are  a  rum  one  !  "  he  answered,  much  amused  at  Paul's 
indignant  warmth.  "  I  don't  want  you  to  do  it.  It  don't 
matter  tuppence  either  way  to  me  whether  you  sink  or 
swim.  You're  at  liberty  to  starve,  so  far  as  I'm  concerned, 
in  the  mo.st  honest  and  Quixotic  way  that  seems  good  to 
you.  All  I  say  is  that  if  I  were  you  I'd  go  in,  for  the  pres- 
ent— till  something  neat  turns  up  in  the  matrimonial  line — 
for  being  a  professional  guinea-pig.  I  throw  out  the  hint 
for  your  consideration,  free,  gratis,  given  away  for  nothing. 
If  you  don't  like  it  you're  at  liberty  to  leave  it.  But  you 
needn't  jump  down  a  man's  throat  for  all  that  with  your 
moral  remarks,  as  if  I  was  an  idiot. 

**  I  don't  care  to  sell  my  name  for  money  to  anybody," 
Paul  answered,  growing  hot ;  "  either  to  men  or  women. 
I  never  sought  the  titlt,  myself  :  it's  been  thrust  upon  me 
by  circumstances,  and  I  suppose  I  must  take  it.  But  if  I 
bear  it  at  all,  I  trust  I  shall  so  bear  it  as  to  bring  no  dis- 
grace upon  my  honest  ancestors.  I  will  lend  it  or  sell  it  to 
nobody  for  my  own  advantage." 

"  So  my  uncle  informed  me,"  Mr.  Lionel  answered, 
showing  his  even  teeth  in  a  very  ugly  smile,  and  once 
more  ogling  that  coroneted  note-paper  :  **  and  I'll  tell  you 
what  I  th'nk  of  you,  Gascoyne  !  I  think  you're  a  fool  for 
your  pains  ;  that's  just  my  candid  opinion  of  you  !  You're 
a  sight  too  sentimental,  that's  where  it  is,  with  these  notions 
and  ideas  of  yours  !  You'll  find,  when  you've  mixed  a 
little  more  with  the  world,  as  I've  done  in  the  City,  you'll 
have  to  come  down  a  bit  at  last  from  that  precious  high  horse 
of  yours.  If  you  don't,  he'll  throw  you,  and  then  there'll 
be  an  end  of  you  !    And  I've  got  another  thing  to  tell  you, 


FA  SII ION  ABLE  IN  TELLIGENCE. 


287 


too,  now  I'm  once  about  it !  2vly  Uncle  Jiiclah  aint  as  strong 
a  man  by  any  means  as  he  looks  !  His  heart's  affected. 
His  doctor  tells  me  so.  He  can't  stand  running  about  too 
much.  Some  day  he'll  go  running  to  catch  a  train,  getting 
too  much  excited  over  a  matter  of  a  bargain,  or  putting 
himself  in  a  fluster  at  an  execution  ;  and  hi  presto!  before 
he  knows  where  he  is,  his  heart'll  go  pop,  and  there'll  be 
the  end  of  him." 

"  Well,"  Paul  said,  drawing  his  breath  slowly,  with  a 
faint  apprehension  of  Mr.  Lionel's  probable  meaning. 

"  Well,  then,"  Mr.  Lionel  went  on,  unmoved,  that  ugly 
smile  growing  more  marked  than  before,  "I'll  inherit  every 
stiver  my  uncle  leaves — and  among  the  rest,  those  pre- 
^cious  notes-of-hand  of  yours." 

**  Yes,"  Paul  answered,  growing  uncomfortably  warm 
again. 

"  Yes,"  Mr.  Lionel  repeated,  fixing  his  man  with  those 
nasty  eyes  of  his  ;  "  and  I'll  tell  you  what,  Gascoyne — Sir 
Paul  Gascoyne,  Baronet — you'll  find  you've  got  a  very  dif- 
ferent sort  of  man  to  deal  with  from  my  Uncle  Judcih. 
Sentimentality  won't  go  down  with  me,  I  can  tell  you.  It 
aint  my  line  of  country.  You  think  you  can  do  as  you  like 
with  my  uncle,  because  he  takes  a  sort  of  personal  interest 
in  you,  and  feels  proud  of  you  as  his  own  tame,  live  baronet 
that  he's  raised  by  hand,  and  sent  to  college  at  his  own 
expense,  and  floated  in  the  world,  and  made  a  gentleman  of. 
You  think  you  can  force  him  to  wait  as  long  as  you  like  for 
his  money.  But  mark  my  words — my  uncle's  life  aint 
wcrth  a  year's  purchase.  No  office  in  the  City'd  take  him 
at  any  rate  he'd  like  to  offer.  It's  touch  and  go  with  that 
ramshackled  old  heart  of  his.  So  my  advice  to  you  is,  don't 
put  him  to  a  strain,  if  you  don't  want  to  lose  by  it.  For 
when  once  those  papers  come  into  my  hands,  I  give  you 
fair  warning,  I'll  have  my  money's  worth  out  of  them.     I'll 


■•■•1 


288 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


I 


drive  you  to  marry  somebody  who'll  pay  me  up  in  full,  I 
can  tell  you  that  ;  or,  if  I  don't,  I'll  have  you  shown  up  for 
a  defaulter,  as  you  are,  in  every  paper  in  England.  They 
shall  know  how  you  got  your  education  by  fraud,  and 
then  turned  round  and  refused  to  cr.rry  out  your  honest 
bargain." 

Paul's  lips  quivered,  and  his  cheek  was  pale,  but  he  made 
no  reply  to  this  coarse  outburst  of  the  inner  self  in  Lionel 
Solomons.  He  knew  too  well  what  was  due  to  his  own  dig- 
nity. He  went  without  a  word  into  bis  bedroom  next  door, 
packed  up  his  few  belongings  as  hurriedly  as  he  could,  and 
slipped  out  himself  to  call  a  hansom.  Then,  bringing  down 
his  portmanteau  to  the  door  in  his  own  hands,  he  left  Mr. 
Lionel  in  undisturbed  possession  of  their  joint  apartments, 
and  started  off  to  his  new  rooms  in  a  by-way  off  Gower 
Street. 

Nevertheless,  that  hint  of  a  possible  eventuality  disturbed 
his  mind  not  a  little  in  the  night  watches.  It  was  a  fact, 
indeed,  that  Mr.  Solomons'  heart  was  a  feeble  member  ; 
and  Paul  by  no  means  relished  the  idea  of  being  left  with 
such  an  individual  as  Mr.  Lionel  Solomons  for  his  life-long 
creditor. 

As  for  Mr.  Lionel,  no  sooner  was  Paul's  back  turned  than 
he  drew  out  a  photograph  from  his  inner  breast-pocket 
with  effusion,  and  gazed  at  it  tenderly.  It  was  a  photo- 
graph of  a  lady  of  mature  and  somewhat  obviously  artificial 
charms,  inclosed  in  a  scented  Russia  leather  case  with  a 
gilt  coronet. 

"Well,  he  did  me  one  good  turn,  anyhow,"  Mr.  Lionel 
murmured,  with  a  rapturous  look  at  the  lady's  face,  "  when 
he  introduced  me  to  the  Ceriolo.  And  now  he's  gone,  I'm 
not  .sorry  to  be  rid  of  him,  for  I  can  ask  her  here  to  supper 
as  often  as  I  like  next  summer,  with  no  chance  of  its  get- 
ting round  in  the  end  to  Uncle  Judah." 


MARRIAGE  IN  HIGH  LIFE. 


289 


For  Mr.  Lionel's  charmer  had  »iow  gone  abroad,  as  was 
her  usual  wont,  to  winter  quarters.  But  even  in  those 
remote  foreign  parts  she  never  neglected  to  write  to  her 
new  admirer. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 


MARRIAGE    IN    HIGH    LIFE. 


How  curiously  different  things  look  to  each  of  us  accord- 
ing to  our  particular  point  of  view  !  While  Faith  and  Paul 
at  Hillborough  and  in  London  were  reflecting  seriously  how 
to  make  things  decent  for  the  Thistleton  family  at  the 
approaching  ceremony,  the  Thistletons  in  turn,  in  their 
opulent  mansion  in  the  Park  at  Sheffield,  were  all  agog 
with  the  unwonted  excitement  of  preparation  for  their 
Charlie's  marriage  with  the  sister  of  Sir  Paul  Gascoyne, 
Fifteenth  Baronet. 

"  The  wedding  must  be  in  London,  of  course,"  Mrs. 
Thistleton  said  musingly — she  was  a  comfortable  body  of 
a  certain  age,  with  a  material  plenitude  of  face  and  figure  ; 
**  and  Sir  Paul'll  give  her  away  himself,  you  may  be  certain. 
I  suppose  they  won't  want  it  to  beat  Hillborough,  Charlie? 
I'd  much  rather,  for  my  part,  you  should  be  married  in 
London." 

**  I  think  Faith  would  prefer  it,  too,"  Thistleton  answered, 
smiling.  "  You  must  remember,  mother  dear,  I've  always 
told  you,  they  live  in  a  very  quiet  way  of  their  own  down 
at  Hillborough  ;  and  I  fancy  they'd  rather  we  were  mar- 
ried— well,  away  from  the  place,  of  course,  where  they've 
just  lost  their  poor  father." 

"  Naturally,"  Mrs.  Thistleton  went  on,  still  turning  over 
with  those  matronly  hands  of  hers  the  patterns  for  her  new 
silk  dress  for  the  occr.sion,  sent  by  post  that  morning — the 
richest  Lyons — from  Swan  &   Edgar's.     "There'll  be  an 


I ,     Jill 


k 


i^O 


THE  SCALLYWAG. 


** 


account  of  it  in  the  Worlds  I  suppose,  and  in  the  Morning 
Post,  and  the  bride's  dress'll  be  noticed  in  the  Queen.  I 
declare  I  shall  feel  quite  nervous.  But  I  suppose  Sir  Paul 
will  be  affable,  won't  he  ?  " 

Her  son  laughed  good-humoredly.  "  Gascoyne's  a  first- 
rate  fellow,"  he  answered,  unabashed  ;  "  but  I  can  hardly 
imagine  his  being  affable  to  anybody.  To  be  affable's  to 
be  condescending,  and  Gascoyne's  a  great  deal  too  shy  and 
retiring  himself  ever  to  dream  of  condescending  to,  or 
patronizing  anyone. 

"  Well,  I  hope  Faith  won't  give  herself  any  airs,"  Mrs. 
Thistleton  continued,  laying  four  fashionable  shades  of 
silk  side  by  side  in  the  sunlight  for  critical  comp  rison  ; 
"  because  your  father's  a  man  who  won't  stand  airs  ;  and 
I  should  be  very  sorry  if  she  was  to  annoy  him  in  any 
way.  It's  a  great  pity  she  cc- Idn'c  Live  cjiiic  i  p  to  stay 
with  us  beforehand,  so  that  we  might  all  have  got  to  know 
a  little  about  her  and  not  be  so  afraid  of  her." 

"  It  would  have  been  impossible,"  Thistleton  replied, 
gazing  across  at  his  mother  with  an  amused  air.  *'  But  I 
wish  I  could  disabuse  your  mind  of  these  ideas  about  the 
Gascoynes.  Paul  and  Faith  will  be  a  great  deal  more 
afraid  of  you  than  you  are  of  them  ;  and  as  to  Faith  giving 
herself  airs,  dear  girl,  she'll  be  so  awfully  frightened,  when 
she  comes  to  stay  here,  at  the  size  of  the  house  and  the 
number  of  the  servants,  that  I  wouldn't  for  worlds  have  had 
her  come  to  visit  us  before  she's  married,  or  else  I'm  certain 
she'd  try  to  cry  off  again  the  moment  she  arrived,  from  pure 
nervousness." 

"Well,  I'm  sure  I  hope  you're  right,"  Mrs,  Thistleton 
replied,  selecting  finally  the  exact  shade  that  suited  her 
complexion,  and  laying  it  down  by  itself  on  the  costly  in- 
laid table  that  stood  beside  the  Oriental  ottoman  in  the 
alcove  by  the  bay  window.     "  For  though,  of  course,  one 


ton 

her 
in- 
the 
)ne 


MARRIAGE  IN  HIGH  LIFE. 


291 


naturally  likes  to  be  connected  with  people  of  title,  and  all 
that,  one  doesn't  want  them  to  trample  one  under  foot  in 
return  for  all  one's  consideration." 

But  at  the  very  same  moment,  away  over  at  Hillborough, 
Faith,  as  she  sat  in  her  simple  black  frock  by  the  window 
of  her  new  lodgings,  stitching  away  at  the  skirt  of  her 
wedding-dress  with  aching  fingers,  was  remarking  to  her 
mother  : 

"  What  I  am  afraid  of,  dear,  is  that,  perhaps,  Charlie's 
father  and  mother  will  turn  out,  when  one  comes  to  know 
them,  to  be  nothing  more  or  less  than  nasty  rich  people." 

To  which  her  mother  wisely  answered  : 

"  If  they're  like  himself.  Faith,  I  don't  think  you  need  be 
afraid  of  them." 

In  accordance  with  the  wish  of  both  the  high  contracting 
parties  it  had  been  finally  arranged  that  the  wedding  should 
take  place  in  London.  Mr.  Thistleton,  senior,  therefore 
went  up  to  town  a  week  or  two  in  advance,  **  to  consult 
with  Sir  Paul,"  whom  he  was  able  to  guaran«:'»e  in  his  letter 
to  his  wife  the  same  evening  as  "  extremely  amicable." 
But  it  would  be  out  of  the  question,  the  Master  Cutler 
observed,  when  he  saw  the  Fifteenth  Baronet's  present 
abode,  that  Miss  Gascoyne  should  be  married  from  her 
brother's  chambers.  (Mr.  Thistleton,  senior,  influenced  by 
.somewhat  the  same  motives  as  Mr.  Lionel  Solomons,  wrote 
"  chambers  "  in  place  of  "  lodgings"  even  to  his  wife,  be- 
cause he  felt  the  simplicity  of  the  latter  word  unsuitable 
to  the  Fifteenth  Baronet's  exalted  dignity.)  So  he  had 
arranged  with  Sir  Paul — much  against  Sir  Paul's  original 
wish — to  take  rooms  for  the  breakfast  at  a  West-End  hotel, 
whither  the  bridal  party  would  proceed  direct  from  the  altar 
of  St.  George's.  Of  course,  the  ceremony  was  to  be  the 
simplest  possible — only  a  few  very  intimate  friends  of  either 
family  ;  but  the  Master  Cutler  couldn't  forbear  the  pleasure 


i;v 


I 


'     tl 


;i| 


•99 


TltE   SCALLYWAG. 


of  the  breakfast  at  the  hotel,  and  the  display  of  Sir  Paul  in 
the  full  glory  of  his  Fifteenth  Baronetcy,  before  the  admir- 
ing eyes  of  a  smr'l  but  select  Sheffield  audience.  If  they 
smuggled  their  Ikironet  away  in  a  corner,  why  their  Charlie 
might  almost  as  well  have  married  any  other  girl  whose 
name  was  not  to  be  found  in  the  pages  of  the  liritish  book 
of  honor.  To  all  these  suggestions  Paul  at  last  gave  way, 
though  very  unwillingly,  and  even  consented  to  invite  a  few 
common  Oxford  friends  of  his  own  and  Thistleton's,  in- 
cluding, of  course,  the  invaluable  Mrs   Douglas. 

From  the  very  first  mouie»it  of  Paul's  return  from  Hill- 
borough,  however,  it  began  to  strike  him  with  vague  sur- 
prise  and  wonder  what  ai  inunense  difference  in  people's 
treatment  and  conception  of  him  was  implied  by  his  pos- 
session of  that  empty  little  prefix  of  a  barren  Sir  before  the 
name  bestowed  upon  him  by  his  sponsors  at  his  baptism. 
When  he  took  the  dingy  lodgings  in  the  by-way  off  Gower 
Street,  and  handed  the  landlady's  daughter  one  of  the 
cards  Mr.  Solomons  had  so  vainly  provided  for  him,  with 
"  Sir  Paul  Gascoyne "  written  in  very  neat  copperplate 
upon  their  face,  he  was  amused  and  surprised  at  the  instan- 
taneous impression  his  title  produced  upon  the  manners 
and  address  of  that  glib  young  lady.  The  shrill  voice  in 
which  she  had  loudly  proclaimed  to  him  the  advantages  of 
the  rooms,  the  cheap  price  of  coals  per  scuttle,  the  imme- 
diate proximity  of  the  Wesleyan  chapel,  and  the  excellence 
of  the  goods  purveyed  by  appointment  at  the  neighboring 
beef  and  ham  shop,  sank  down  at  once  to  an  awe-struck 
"  Yes,  Sir  ;  I'm  sure  we'll  do  everything  we  can  to  make 
you  comfortable,  Sir,"  the  moment  her  eyes  lighted  on  the 
talismanic  prefix  that  adorned  his  name  on  that  enchanted 
pasteboard. 

A  few  day<!  later  Paul  decided  with  regret,  after  many 
observations   upon    his    scanty  wardrobe,  that   he   really 


MARRIAGE  IN  HIGH  LIFE. 


293 


:k 
:e 
»e 
|d 

y 
|y 


couldn't  do  without  a  new  coat  for  Faith's  wedding.  Hut 
when  he  presented  himself  in  due  course  at  the  little 
tailor's  shop  in  the  city  ("specially  recommended  by  Mr. 
Solomons  "),  where  he  had  dealt  ever  since  his  first  appear- 
ance at  Oxford,  he  noticed  that  the  news  of  his  acquisition 
of  dignity  had  already  preceded  him  into  the  cutting  and 
fitting  room  by  the  unwonted  obsequiousness  of  both 
master  and  assistants  as  they  displayed  their  patterns. 
"  Yes,  Sir  Paul  ;  no,  Sir  Paul,"  greeted  every  remark  that 
fell  from  his  lips  with  unvarying  servility.  It  was  the  same 
everywhere.  Paul  was  astonished  to  fin.d  in  what  another 
world  he  seemed  to  live  now  from  that  which  had  voted  him 
a  scallywag  at  Mentone. 

To  himself  he  was  still  the  same  simple,  shy,  timid,  sen- 
sitive  person  as  ever  ;  but  to  everyone  else  he  appeared 
suddenly  transfigured  into  the  resplendent  image  of  Sir 
Paul  Gascoyne,  Fifteenth  Baronet. 

Strangest  of  all,  a  day  or  two  before  the  date  announced 
for  the  wedding  in  the  Morning  Post  (for  Mr.  Thistleton, 
senior,  had  insisted  upon  conveying  information  of  the 
forthcoming  fashionable  event  to  the  world  at  large  through 
the  medium  of  that  highly  respected  journal),  Paul  was 
astonished  at  receiving  a  neatly  written  note  on  a  sheet  of 
paper  with  the  embossed  address,  "  Gascoyne  Manor, 
Haverfordwest,  Pembrokeshire."  It  was  a  polite  intima- 
tion from  the  present  owner  of  the  Gascoyne  estates  that, 
having  heard  of  St.  Paul's  accession  to  the  baronetcy,  and 
of  his  sister's  approaching  marriage  to  Mr.  C.  E.  Thistle- 
ton  of  Christ  Church,  Oxford,  he  would  esteem  it  a  pleas- 
ure if  he  might  be  permitted  to  heal  the  family  breach  by 
representing  the  other  branch  of  the  Gascoyne  house  in  his 
own  proper  person  at  the  approaching  ceremony.  Paul 
looked  at  the  envelope ;  it  had  been  readdressed  from 
Christ  Church.     For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  smiled  to 


!  J 


t       I 


'*     -'I 

.v-rl 


294 


THE  SCALI.YWAC. 


% 


j.  1 
'  i 


himself  a  cynical  smile.  It  was  evident  that  Gascoyne  of 
(jascoyne  Manur,  while  indisposed  to  admit  his  natural 
relationship  to  the  Hillborough  cabman,  was  not  unalive  to 
the  advantages  of  keeping  up  his  dormant  connection  with 
Sir  Paul  Gascoyne,  of  Christ  Church,  Oxford,  Fifteenth 
Baronet. 

However,  it  appeared  to  Paul  on  two  accounts  desirable 
to  accept  the  olive  branch  thus  tardily  held  out  to  him  by 
the  other  division  of  the  Gascoyne  family.  In  the  first 
place,  he  did  not  desire  to  be  on  bad  terms  with  anyone, 
including  even  his  own  relations.  In  the  second  place,  he 
wished  for  the  Thistletons'  sake  that  some  elder  represent- 
ative of  the  Gascoyne  stock  should  be  present,  if  possible, 
at  his  sister's  wedding.  His  mother  absolutely  refused  to 
attend,  and  neither  Paul  nor  Faith  had  the  courage  to  urge 
her  to  reconsider  this  determination.  Their  recent  loss 
was  sufficient  excuse  in  itself  to  explain  her  absence.  But 
Paul  was  not  sorry  that  this  other  Gascoyne  should  thus 
luckily  interpose  to  represent  before  the  eyes  of  assembled 
Sheffield  the  senior  branches  of  the  bride's  family. 

Nay,  what  was  even  more  remarkable,  Paul  fancied  the 
very  editors  themselves  were  more  polite  in  their  demeanor, 
and  more  ready  to  accept  his  proffered  manuscripts,  now 
that  the  perfect  purity  of  his  English  style  was  further 
guaranteed  by  his  accession  to  the  baronetcy.  Who,  indeed, 
when  one  comes  to  consider  seriously,  should  write  our 
mother-tongue  with  elegance  and  correctness  if  not  the 
hereditary  guardians  of  the  Queen's  English  ?  And  was  it 
astonishing,  therefore,  if  even  the  stern  editorial  mouth 
relaxed  slightly  when  office  boys  brought  up  the  modest 
pasteboard  which  announced  that  Sir  Paul  Gascoyne,  Baro- 
net, desired  the  honor  of  a  ten  minutes'  interview  ?  It 
sounds  well  in  conversation,  you  know,"  Sir  Paul  Gascoyne, 
one  of  our  younger  contributors — he  writes  those  crisp  little 


MARRIAGE   IX  II I  CI!  LIFE. 


295 


the 
nor, 
now 
her 
ed, 
our 
the 
s  it 
uth 
est 
ro- 
It 
ne, 
tie 


occasional  reviews  on  the  fourth  page  upon  books  of 
travel."  For  the  wise  editor,  who  knows  the  world  he 
lives  in,  will  not  despise  such  minor  methods  of  indirectly 
establishing  public  confidence  in  the  "  good  form  "  and 
thorough  society  tone  of  his  own  particular  bantling  of  a 
journal. 

Well,  at  last  the  wedding-day  itself  arrived,  and  Faith, 
who  had  come  up  from  Hillborough  the  night  before  to 
stop  at  Paul's  lodgings,  set  out  with  her  brothe.  from  that 
humble  street,  in  the  regulation  coach,  looking  as  pretty 
and  dainty  in  her  simple  white  dress  as  even  Thisllelon 
himself  had  ever  seen  her.  They  drove  alone  as  far  as  the 
church  ;  but  when  they  entered,  Paul  was  immensely  sur 
prised  to  see  how  large  a  crowd  of  acquaintances  and 
friends  the  announcement  in  the  papers  had  gathered 
together.  Armitage  was  there,  fresh  back  from  Italy,  where 
he  had  been  spending  the  winter  at  Florence  in  the  pursuit 
of  Art  ;  and  Paul  couldn't  help  noticing  the  friendly  way  in 
which  that  arbiter  of  reputations  nodded  and  smiled  as 
Faith  and  he  walked,  tremulous,  up  the  aisle  together. 
The  Douglases  from  Oxford  were  there,  of  course,  and  a 
dozen  or  two  of  undergraduates  or  contemporaries  of 
Paul's,  who  had  rather  despised  the  scallywag,  than  other- 
wise, while  they  were  at  college  in  his  company.  Isabel 
Boyton  and  her  mamma  occupied  front  seats,  and  smiled 
benignly  upon  poor  trembling  Faith  as  she  entered.  The 
kinsman  Gascoyne,  of  Gascoyne  Manor,  met  them  in  the 
chancel,  and  shook  hands  warmly — a  large-built,  well- 
dressed  man  of  military  bearing  and  most  squirearchical 
proportions,  sufficient  to  strike  awe  by  his  frock-coat  alone 
into  the  admiring  breasts  of  all  beholders.  The  Sheffield 
detachment  was  well  to  the  fore,  also  strong  and  eager  ;  a 
throng  of  wealthy  folk,  with  the  cutlery  stamp  on  face  and 
figure,  craning  anxiously  forward  when  the  bride  appeared, 


t1'  • 


!    ! 

1       ! 


\\-  ■■■■ 


n 


a<)(i 


THE   SCALLYWAG, 


and  whispering  loud  to  one  another  in  theatrical  under- 
tones, '*  'I'hat's  Sir  I'aul  that's  leading  her ;  oh,  isn't  he 
just  nice-looking  !  "  'I'histleton  himself  was  there  before 
them,  very  manly  and  modest  in  iiis  wedding  garment,  and 
regarding  Faith,  as  she  faltered  up  the  aisle,  with  a  pro. 
found  gaze  of  most  unfeigned  admiration.  And  every- 
body was  pleased  and  good-humored  and  satisfied,  even 
Mrs.  Thistloton,  senior,  being  fully  set  at  rest,  the  moment 
she  set  eyes  on  Taul's  slim  figure,  as  to  the  Fifteenth 
]iaronet's  perfect  affability. 

It  is  much  more  important  in  life  always  what  you're 
called  than  what  you  are.  He  was  just  the  very  selfsame 
Paul  Gascoyne  as  ever,  but  how  differently  now  all  the 
world  regarded  him ! 

As  for  Faith,  when  she  saw  the  simple  eager  curiosity  of 
the  Sheffield  folk,  and  their  evident  anxiety  to  catch  her 
eye  and  attract  her  attention,  her  heart  melted  toward  them 
at  once  within  her.  She  saw  in  a  moment  they  were  not 
'*  nasty  rich  people,"  but  good  !  .)nest  kindly  folk  like  her- 
self, with  real  human  hearts  beating  hard  in  their  bosoms. 

So  Faith  and  Thistleton  were  duly  proclaimed  man  and 
wife  by  the  Reverend  the  Rector,  assi.sted  in  his  arduous 
task  by  the  Reverend  Henry  Edward  Thistleton,  cousin  of 
the  bridegroom.  And  after  the  ceremony  was  finally 
finished,  and  the  books  signed,  and  the  signatures  witnessed, 
the  bridal  party  drove  away  to  the  hotel  where  Mr.  Thistle- 
ton,  senior,  had  commanded  lunch  ;  and  there  they  all 
fraternized  in  unwonted  style,  the  Master  Cutler  proposing 
the  bride's  health  in  a  speech  of  the  usual  neatness  and  ap 
propriateness,  while  Mr.  Gascoyne,  of  Gascoyne  Manor, 
performed  the  same  good  office  for  the  bridegroom's  con- 
stitution. And  the  elder  Thistletons  rejoiced  exceedingly 
in  the  quiet  dignity  of  the  whole  proceedings  ;  and  even 
Faith  (for  a  woman  will  always  be  a  woman  still)  was  glad 


I  1  il  !■ 

I  nil,, I 


A    PI. AX  OF  CAMrAtaS\ 


»97 


in  her  heart  that  Mr.  (lascoyne,  of  (lascoync  Manor,  had 
lent  ihcm  for  the  day  the  coimtcnaiice  of  his  jjrcatncss,  and 
not  Ictl  them  t«)  bear  alone  in  their  orphaned  poverty  the 
burden  of  the  baronetcy.  And  in  the  afternoon,  as  the 
Morniii\^  J\K'<t  next  day  succinctly  remarked,  *'  the  bride  and 
bride;;ro()m  left  for  Dover,  en  rouU'  for  Paris,  Rome,  and 
Naples,"  while  Sir  I'aul  (lascoyne,  Fifteenth  llaronet,  re- 
turned  l)y  himself,  feelinj;  lonely  indeed,  to  his  solitary  little 
lodgings  in  the  road  off  (lower  Street. 

Hut  it  had  been  a  very  bright  and  happy  day  on  the  whole 
for  the  national  schoolmistress.  And  when  Mrs.  Douglas 
kissed  her  on  both  her  cheeks,  and  whispered,  "  My  dear, 
I'm  so  glad  you've  married  him  !"  Faith  felt  she  had  never 
before  been  so  proud,  and  that  Charlie  was  a  man  any  girl 
in  the  world  might  well  be  proud  of. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 


A    PLAN    OF    CAMPAIGN. 


Mme.  Ceriolo  had  passed  the  winter  in  Italy — or,  to 
be  more  precise,  at  Florence.  Her  dear  friend  (she  wrote 
to  Lionel  Solomons),  the  Countess  Splnelli-Feroni,  had 
asked  her  to  come  out  and  stay  with  her  as  companion  at 
her  beautiful  villa  on  the  Viale  dei  Colli,  so  as  to  assume  the 
place  of  chaperon  to  her  accomplished  daughter,  Fede,  now 
just  of  an  age  to  take  part  as  a  debutante  in  the  world's  frivol- 
ities. The  poor  dear  countess  herself  had  been  paraylzed 
last  year,  and  was  unable  to  accompany  that  charming  girl 
of  hers,  who  couldn't,  of  course,  be  allowed  to  go  out  alone 
into  the  wicked  world  of  modern  Florence.  So  she  be- 
thought her  at  once  of  her  dear  old  friend,  Maria  Agnese 
Ceriolo.     As  a   matter  of  fact,  as  everybody  knows,  the 


4r, 


iU 


2gB 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


m\ 


■4 

■li'l 


Spinelli-Feroni  family  became  totally  extinct  about  a  hun- 
dred years  ago ;  and  Mnic.  C.'eriolo  had  been  made 
aware  of  their  distinguished  name  (jnly  by  the  fact  that 
their  former  Palazzo,  near  the  Ponte  Santa  Trinity,  is  at 
present  occupied  by  Vieusseux's  Knglish  C'irculaling  Li- 
brary. The  title,  however,  is  a  sufficiently  high-sounding 
one  to  command  respect,  and  tloubtless  answered  Mnie. 
Ceriolo's  purpose  (piite  as  well  as  any  other  she  could  pos- 
sibly have  hit  upon  of  more  strictly  modern  and  practical 
exactitude. 

It  may  be  acutely  conjectured  that  a  more  genuine  reason 
for  the  little  lady's  selection  of  her  winter  abode  might  have 
been  found  in  the  fact  that  Armitagc  happened  to  be  spend- 
ing that  season  at  an  hotel  on  the  Lungarno.  And  madame 
did  not  intend  to  lose  sight  of  Armitage.  She  was 
thoroughly  aware  of  that  profound  paradox  that  a  pro- 
fessed cynic  and  man  of  the  world  is  the  safest  of  all  marks 
for  the  matrimonial  aim  of  the  cosmopolitan  adventuress. 
True  to  her  principle,  however,  of  keeping  always  more 
than  one  string  to  her  bow,  she  had  not  forgotten  to  dis- 
patch at  the  New  Year  a  neat  little  card  to  Mr.  Lionel 
Solomons,  with  the  Duomo  and  Campanile  embossed  in  pale 
monochrome  in  the  upper  left-hand  corner,  and  **  Sinceri 
auguri  "  written  across  its  face  in  breezy  gold  letters  of 
most  Italianesque  freedom.  The  card  was  inclosed  in  one 
of  Mme.  Ceriolo's  own  famous  little  society  envelopes,  with 
the  coronet  on  the  flap  in  silver  and  gray  ;  and  Mr.  Lionel 
was,  indeed,  a  proud  and  happy  man  when  he  read  on  its 
back  in  a  neat  feminine  hand,  "  Moiti  anni  felice. — M.  A. 
Ceriolo." 

To  be  sure,  Mr.  Lionel  knew  no  Italian  ;  but  it  flattered 
his  vanity  that  Mme.  Ceriolo  should  take  it  for  granted  he 
did.  Indeed,  Mme.  Ceriolo,  with  her  usual  acuteness,  had 
chosen  to  word  her  little  message  in  a  foreign  tongue  for 


A    PLAX  OF  CAMrAhlX. 


399 


that   very   reason — so   accurately    had   she    gauged    Mr. 
Lionel's  human  peculiarities. 

Karly  in  March,  however,  AtmitaRc  iiad  been  suddenly 
recalled  to  Kngland  on  uuexpecteil  business,  reaching  Lon- 
don by  mere  chance  in  time  to  be  present  at  'I'liisileion's 
marriage  with  I'aith  Oascoyne.  So  Mme.  Ceiiolo,  having 
nothing  further  to  detain  her  now  in  Italy,  and  being  anx- 
ious not  to  let  Mr.  Lionel  languish  too  long  uncheeied  by 
her  sunny  presence — for  man  is  fickle  and  London  is  large — 
decideil  to  return  with  the  first  .Vpril  swallows,  after  Brown- 
ing's receipt,  to  dear,  dingy  Old  Kngland.  She  stopped 
for  a  night  or  two  on  her  way  in  liiusscls,  to  be  sure,  with 
a  member  of  her  distinguished  aristocratic  family  (just  then 
engaged  as  a  scene-shifter  at  the  'Ihcatre  Royal)  ;  bilt  by 
the  morning  of  the  5th  she  was  confortably  settled  once 
more  at  the  Hotel  de  I'Univers,  and  had  made  Mr.  Lionel 
aware  of  her  serene  presence  by  a  short  little  note  couched 
in  the  simplest  terms  : 

"  Back  in  London  at  last.  This  minute  arrived.  When 
may  I  hope  to  see  you  ?     7'oute  il  vous  de  caur. 

"  M.  A.  Ceriolo." 

Mr.  Lionel  read  that  admirably  worded  note  ten  times 
over  to  himself — it  said  so  much  because  it  said  so  little  ; 
then  he  folded  it  up  with  his  fat,  short  fingers  and  placed  it 
next  his  heart,  in  his  bank-note  pocket.  He  was  a  man  of 
sentiment  in  his  way,  as  well  as  of  bur:iness,  was  Mr.  Lionel 
Solomons,  and  the  Ceriolo  was  undoubtedly  a  devilish  fine 
woman.  It  was  not  nothing  that  a  countess  should  write 
to  him  thus  on  her  own  initialed  and  coroneted  note- 
paper.  A  countess  in  distress  is  still  always  a  countess. 
And  "  Toute  h  vous  de  cceur"  too  !  Mr.  Lionel  was  not 
learned  in  foreign  tongues,  but  so  much  at  least  of  the 
French  language  his  Ollendorffian  studies  permitted   him 


I 


'W 


300 


THE   SCALLVIVAG. 


readily  to  translate.  He  hugged  himself  with  delight  as  he 
rolled  those  dainty  wordr  on  his  mind's  tongue  once  more. 
"  2^ou/e  a  7'ous  de  caur  "  she  wrote  to  him  ;  a  devlish  fine 
woman,  and  a  born  countess. 

It  was  with  infinite  impatience  that  Mr.  Lionel  endured 
the  routine  work  of  the  office  in  the  City  that  day,  His 
interest  in  the  wobbling  of  Consols  flagged  visibly,  and  even 
the  thrilling  news  that  Portuguese  Threes  had  declined 
one-eighth,  to  S3H~H  ^^'"  ^'^^  account,  failed  to  rouse  for 
the  moment  his  languid  enthusiasm.  He  bore  with  equan- 
imity the  boom  in  Argentines,  and  seemed  hardly  inclined 
to  attach  sufficient  importance  to  the  probable  effect  of  the 
Servian  crisis  on  the  doubtful  value  of  Roumanian  and 
Bulgarian  securities.  All  day  long,  in  fact,  he  was  moody 
and  preoccupied  ;  and  more  than  once,  when  nobody  els- 
was  looking,  he  drew  from  the  pocket  nearest  his  heart  a 
tiny  square  of  cream-laid  note,  on  which  he  once  more 
devoured  those  intoxicating  words,  "  Tou^e  a  vous  de  coei'*-. — 
M.  A.  Ceriolo." 

In  the  evening,  as  soon  as  the  office  closed,  Mr.  Lionel 
indulged  himself  in  the  unwonted  luxurv  of  a  hansom  cab — 
he  more  usually  swelled  the  dividends  of  the  Metropolitan 
Railway — and  hurried  home  post-haste  to  his  own  rooms  to 
make  himself  beautiful  with  hair  oil  and  a  sprig  of  Roman 
hyacinth.  (Roman  hyacinth,  relieved  with  two  sprays  of 
pink  bouvardia,  suited  Mr.  Lionel's  complexion  to  a  T,  and 
could  be  purchased  cheap  toward  nightfall,  to  prevent  loss 
by  fading,  from  the  florist's  round  the  corner.)  He  was 
anxious  to  let  no  delay  stand  in  the  way  of  his  visit  to 
Mme.  Ceriolo's  salon.  Had  not  madame  herself  written 
to  him,  "  This  minute  arrived" }  and  should  he,  the  happy 
swain  thus  honored  by  the  fair,  show  himself  unworthy  of 
her  marked  empressement  ? 

So  soon  as  he  had  arrayed  his  rotund  person  in  its  most 


A   PLAN  OF  CAMPAIGN. 


301 


ionel 

;ab— 

litan 

s  to 

man 

s  of 

and 

loss 

was 

t  to 

tten 

ppy 

y  of 
lost 


expensive  and  becoming  apparel  (as  advertised,  four  and  a 
half  gnineas)  he  hastened  down,  by  hansom  once  more,  to 
the  Hotel  de  I'Univcrs. 

Mme,  Ceriolo  received  him,  »•>"'". aphorically  speaking, 
with  open  arms.  To  have  done  so  literally  woiik!,  in 
madame's  opinion,  have  been  bad  play.  Her  policy  was  to 
encourage  attentions  in  not  too  liberal  or  generous  a  spirit. 
By  holding  off  a  little  at  first  in  the  expression  of  your 
emotion  you  draw  them  on  in  the  end  all  the  more  ardently 
and  surely. 

And  Mme.  Ceriolo  felt  decidedly  now,  the  necessity  for 
coming  to  the  point  with  Lionel  Solomons.  The  testi- 
mony of  her  mirror  compelled  her  to  admit  that  she  was  no 
longer  so  young  as  she  had  been  twenty  years  ago.  To  be 
sure,  she  was  well  preserved — remarkably  well  preserved— ^ 
and  even  almost  without  making  up  (for  Mme.  Ceriolo 
relied  as  little  as  possible,  after  all,  upon  the  dangerous  ard 
doubtful  aid  of  cosmetics)  she  was  still  nn  undeniably  fresh 
and  handsome  little  woman.  Her  easygoing  life,  and  the 
zest  with  which  she  entered  into  all  amusements,  had  com- 
bined with  a  naturally  strong  and  lively  constitution  to  keep 
the  wrinkles  from  her  brow^  the  color  in  her  cheeks,  and 
the  agreeable  roundness  in  her  well-turned  figure.  Never- 
theless, Mme.  Ceriolo  was  fully  aware  that  all  this  could 
not  last  forever.  Her  exchequer  was  low — uncomfortably 
low  :  she  had  succeeded  in  making  but  little  at  Florence 
out  of  play  or  bets — the  latter  arranged  on  the  simple  prin- 
ciple of  accepting  when  she  won,  and  smiling  when  she  lost, 
in  full  discharge  of  all  obligations.  Armitage  had  circled 
round  her  like  a  moth  round  the  candle,  but  had  managed 
to  get  away  in  the  end  without  singeing  his  wings.  Mme. 
Ceriolo  sighed  a  solemn  sigh  of  pensive  regret  as  she  con- 
cluded that  she  must  decline  for  the  present,  at  least,  upon 
Lionel  Solomons. 


1' 


i 


M 
i 


i 


in 


i!| 


I  "I. 

Ill- 


!  I 


! 


302 


r//£  SCALLYIVAG. 


Not  that  she  had  the  very  slightest  idea  of  passing  the 
whole  remainder  of  her  earthly  pilgrimage  in  that  engaging 
young  person's  intimate  society.  Folly  of  such  magnitude 
would  never  even  have  occurred  in  her  wildest  moment 
to  Mme.  Ceriolo's  well-balanced  and  well-regulated 
intellect.  Her  plan  was  merely  to  suck  Mr.  Lionel  quite 
dry,  and  then  fling  him  away  under  circumstances  where 
he  could  be  of  no  further  possible  inconvenience  or  an- 
noyance to  her.  And  to  this  intent,  Mme.  Ceriolo  had 
gradually  concocted  at  Florence — in  the  intervals  of 
extracting  five-franc  pieces  by  slow  doles  from  some  im- 
poverished Tuscan  Count  or  Marchese — a  notable  scheme 
which  she  was  now  in  course  of  putting  into  actual  execu- 
tion. She  had  returned  to  London  resolved  to  "  fetch  ** 
Mr.  Lionel  Solomons  or  to  perish  in  the  attempt,  and  she 
proceeded  forthwith  in  characteristic  style  to  the  task  of 
"fetching  "  him. 

In  the  shabby  little  salon  everything  was  as  neat  as  neat 
could  be  when  Mr.  Lionel  entered  to  salute  his  charmer. 
A  bouquet — presented  that  day  by  another  admirer — stood 
upon  the  table  by  the  sofa  in  the  corner,  where  Mme. 
Ceriolo  herself  lay  in  the  half-light,  her  lamp  just  judi- 
ciously shaded  from  above,  and  the  folds  of  her  becoming 
soft-colored  tea-gown  arranged  around  her  plump  figure 
with  the  most  studied  carelessness.  As  Lionel  approached 
Mme.  Ceriolo  held  out  both  her  hands  in  welcome,  without 
rising  from  her  seat  or  discomposing  her  dress. 

"  How  nice  of  you  to  come  so  soon  !  "  she  cried,  press- 
ing either  fat  palm  with  dexterously  adjusted  pressure.  "  So 
long  since  we've  met !  And  I  thought  of  you  at  Florence, 
even  among  those  delicious  Fra  Angelicos,  and  Lippis,  and 
Andreas,  and  Delia  Robbias,  I  often  longed  to  be  back  in 
England,  among  all  my  friends.  For,  after  all,  I  love 
England  best.    I  sometimes  say  to  her,  with  all  thy  virtues 


A    PLAN  OF  CAMPAIGiV. 


303 


— thy  Philistine,  obtrusive,  hypocritical  virtues — Englantl, 
with  all  thy  virtues,  I  love  thee  still !  " 

Mr.  Lionel  was  charmed.  What  wit !  what  playfulness  ! 
He  sat  clown  and  talked,  with  a  vague  idea  of  being  a 
thorough  man  of  the  world,  about  Florence  and  Italy, 
and  all  Mme.  Ceriolo  had  seen  and  done  since  he  last  set 
eyes  on  her,  till  he  half  imagined  himself  as  cosmopolitan 
as  she  was.  Indeed,  he  had  once  run  across  (when  busi- 
ness was  slack)  for  a  fortnight  to  Paris,  and  made  acquain- 
tance with  the  Continent  in  the  caf^s  chantants  of  the 
Champs  Elys^es  in  that  seductive  metropolis,  so  that  he 
almost  felt  competent  to  discuss  the  Ufifizi  and  the  Pitti 
Palace,  or  to  enlarge  upon  St.  Mark's  and  Milan  Cathedral, 
with  as  much  glib  readiness  as  Mme.  Ceriolo  herself  could 
do.  As  for  madame,  she  humored  him  to  the  very  top  of 
his  bent. 

"Ah,  what  a  pity  it  is,  Mr.  Solomons,"  she  exclaimed  at 
last,  gazing  across  at  him  with  a  look  which  was  intended 
to  convey  the  ill-concealed  admiration  of  a  simple  but  all 
too-trusting  heart  ;  "what  a  pity  it  is  that  you,  with  your 
high  instincts  and  aspirations — you  who  would  so  much 
enjoy  and  appreciate  all  these  lovely  things,  should  be  con- 
demned to  pass  all  your  youth — your  golden  youth — in 
moiling  and  toiling  after  the  pursuit  of  wealth  in  that 
dreadful  City  ! " 

"  Well,  the  City  aint  so  bad,  after  all."  Mr.  Lionel 
answered  deprecatingly,  but  with  a  self-satisfied  smirk. 
"There's  lots  of  fun,  too,  to  be  had  in  the  City,  I  can  tell 
you." 

"That's  true,"  Mme.  Ceriolo  answered,  beaming  upon 
him  angelically  ;  "  oh,  so  very  true — for  you  who  say  it.  Of 
course,  when  one's  young,  everywhere  has  its  delights. 
Why,  I  love  even  this  dear  old  dingy  London.  At  our  age, 
naturally,  the  univeise  at  large  ought  to  be  full  of  interest 


•4( 


I'  .'. 


304 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


:l 


I  iii 


for  us.  But,  still,  I  often  think  to  myself,  what  a  terrible 
thing  it  is — how  badly  this  world  we  live  in  is  organized  ! 
It's  the  old  who  have  all  the  world's  money  in  their  hands. 
It's  the  young  who  want  it,  and  who  ought  to  have  it." 

"  Just  my  notion  to  a  T,"  Mr.  Lionel  answered  briskly, 
gazing  at  the  enchantress  with  open  eyes.  "  That's  exactly 
what  I  stick  at.  Where's  the  good  of  the  tin,  I  always  say, 
to  a  lot  of  helpless  and  hopeless  old  mumbling  cripples?  " 

"Quite  so,"  Mme.  Ceriolo  continued,  watching  his  face 
closely.  "  What  a  capital  principle  it  would  be,  now,  if 
nature  made  all  of  us  drop  off  satisfied  at  sixty  or  there- 
abouts, like  leeches  when  they're  full,  and  leave  all  our 
hoarded  wealth  to  be  used  and  enjoyed  by  those  who  have 
still  the  spirit  to  enjoy  it  ! " 

"Instead  of  which,"  Mr.  Lionel  put  in  with  a  prompt 
air  of  acquiescence,  "one's  relations  always  go  living  and 
living  on,  on  purpose  to  spite  one,  till  eighty-five  or 
ninety  !  " 

•'  Keeping  the  young  people  out  of  their  own  so  long  !  " 
Mme.  Ceriolo  echoed,  to  pursue  the  pregnant  train  of 
thought  uninterrupted.  "  Yes,  that's  just  where  it  is.  It's  a 
natural  injustice.  Now,  when  I  was  out  over  there  in  Flor- 
ence, for  example,  I  thought  to  myself — I  can't  tell  you 
how  often — (forgive  me  if  I  confess  it)  suppose  only  Lionel 
Solomons  could  be  here  with  me  too — you'll  pardon  me, 
won't  you,  for  thinking  of  you  to  myself  as  Lionel  Solo- 
mons ? — how  much  more  he'd  enjoy  this  delightful,  charm- 
ing Italian  life,  with  its  freedom  and  its  unconventionality, 
its  sunshine  and  its  carnival,  than  the  dreary,  dismal,  foggy 
world  of  London  !  " 

"  No,  did  you  really  though  ! "  Lionel  cried,  open- 
mouthed.  "  I'm  sure  that  was  awfully  good  and  kind  of 
you,  madame  !  " 

"  And   then   I   thought  to  myself,"  Mme.  Ceriolo  went 


/t    PLAN  OF  CAMPAIGN. 


.^05 


sa 
or- 


en- 
of 


on,  closing  her  eyes  ecstatically — "one  afternoon  in  the 
Casino,  when  the  sun  was  shining,  and  the  band  was  play- 
ing, and  a  crowd  of  young  Italian  noblemen  were  pressing 
round  our  carriage — Countess  Spinelli-Keroni's  carriage, 
you  know,  where  Fede  and  I  were  sitting  and  chatting  •  ith 
them — it  came  upon  me  suddenly,  as  1  looked  around  aiul 
missed  you — how  happy  dear  Lionel  Solomons  would  be  in 

a  world  like  this,  if  only "     She  broke  off  and  paused 

significantly. 

"  If  only  what  ?  "  Mr.  Lionel  asked  with  an  ogle  of  delight. 

*'  If  only  that  rich  uncle  of  his,  old  Cento-Cento  down 
yonder  at  Hillborough,  were  to  do  his  Uuty  like  a  man  and 
pop  off  the  hooks  at  once,  now  there's  no  further  need  or  use 
in  the  world  any  longer  for  him." 

"  Old  what  ? "  Mr.  Lionel  inquired^  not  catching  the 
name  exactly. 

"  Old  Cento-Cento,"  Mme.  Ceriolo  answered,  with  a 
beaming  smile.  "  That's  what  I  always  call  your  respected 
uncle  in  Italian  to  myself.  A  hundred  per  cent,  it  means, 
you  know,  in  English.  I  usually  think  of  him  in  my  own 
mind  as  old  Cento-Cento." 

Mr.  Lionel  hardly  knew  whether  to  be  annoyed  or  not. 
"  He  don't  ask  any  more  than  other  people  do  for  the  same 
accommodation,"  he  answered  half-grumpily. 

**  No,  doesn't  he',  though?"  Mme.  Ceriolo  replied, 
with  the  infantile  smile  of  a  simple  marble  cherub.  "  Well, 
I'm  sorry  for  that  ;  for  I  thought  he  was  laying  by  a  nice 
round  sum  for  somebody  else  to  enjoy  hereafter.  And  for 
somebody  else's  sake,  I  think  I  could  forgive  even  rank 
usury  to  old  Cento-Cento  !  He  might  behave  like  a  per- 
fect Shylock,  if  he  liked,  provided  only  it  redounded  in  the 
end  to  somebody  else's  benefit." 

Mr.  Lionel's  face  relaxed  once  more.  "  Well,  there's 
something  in  that,"  he  answered,  mollified. 


1  I  'i 


!i 


^w 


,!,,5!: 


'^^:i| 


iiilii 
.'III'- 


I  ! 


II' 


306 


THE  SCALLYWAG. 


**  Somethittg  in  that !  "  the  enchantress  echoed  with  a  little 
start  of  surprise  ;  "  why,  there's  a  great  deal  in  that ! 
There's  everything  in  that — Lionel."  She  paused  a  mo- 
ment as  she  let  the  name  glide  half-reluctantly  off  her 
tongue.  *'  For  your  sake,"  she  went  on,  letting  her  eye- 
lashes fall  with  a  drooi)ing  languor,  expressive  of  feminine 
reserve  and  timidity,  "I  almost  fancy  I  could  forgive  him 
anything — except  his  perversity  in  living  forever.  How 
old  is  he  now,  Lionel  ?" 

"Sixty-something,"  the  younger  Mr.  Solomons  answered 
ruefully. 

"And  he  may  go  on  living  to  all  eternity!"  Mme. 
Ceriolo  cried,  excited.  *'  When  I  say  to  *  all  eternity,'  1 
mean  for  twenty  years — at  our  age,  a  perfectly  endless 
period  !  O  Lionel,  think  how  much  enjoyment  you 
might  get  out  of  that  old  man's  money,  if  only — if  only 
my  plan  for  dropping  off  at  sixty  had  met  with  the  appro- 
bation of  the  authorities  of  the  universe  I" 

"  It's  very  good  of  you  to  interest  yourself  so  much  in 
my  happiness,"  Mr.  Lionel  said,  melting,  and  gazing  at  her 
fondly. 

"Whatever  interests  you,  interests  me,  Lionel,"  Mme. 
Ceriolo  answered  truthfully.  For  she  meant  to  make  what 
was  his,  hers.     And  she  gazed  back  at  him,  languishing. 

Flesh  and  blood  could  stand  it  no  longer.  Mr.  Lionel 
was  composed  of  those  familiar  human  histological  ele- 
ments. Leaning  over  the  daughter  of  Tyrolese  aristocracy, 
he  seized  Mme.  Ceriolo's  hand,  which  half  resisted,  half 
yielded,  in  his  own.  In  a  fervor  of  young  love  even  Mr. 
Lionel  could  be  genuinely  carried  away  by  the  tender  pas- 
sion— he  lifted  it  to  his  lips.  The  countess,  in  distress, 
permitted  him  to  impress  upon  it  one  burning  kiss.  Then 
she  snatched  it  away,  tremulously,  like  one  who  feels  con- 
scious of  having  allowed  her  feelings  to  get  the  better  of 


1 1^1 
I  < 


A    PLAN  OF  CAMPAIGX. 


307 


ionel 
ele- 
acy, 
half 
Mr. 
:)as- 
ress, 
hen 
on- 
rof 


her  judgment  in  a  moment  of  weakness.  •'  No,  no,"  she 
exclaimed,  faintly.     •'  Not  that  !     Not  that,  Lionel." 

"  And  why  not  ?"  Mr.  Lionel  asked,  bending  over  her,  all 
eagerness. 

"  Because,"  the  countess  in  distress  answered,  with  a 
deep-drawn  sigh,  ••  I  am  too,  too  weak.  It  can  never  be. 
I  can  never,  never  burden  you." 

Mr.  Lionel  had  hardly  before  reflected  with  seriousness 
whether  he  desired  to  be  burdened  with  Mme.  Ceriolo  as 
a  partner  for  life  or  not;  but  thus  suddenly  j)ut  upon  his 
mettle,  he  forgot  to  reason  with  himself  tis  to  the  wisdom 
of  his  course;  he  forgot  to  pause  for  committee  of  supply; 
he  forgot  to  debate  the  pros  and  cons  of  the  state  of  mat- 
rimony;  he  retained  sense  enough  merely  to  pour  forth  his 
full  soul  in  unpremeditated  strains  of  passionate  pleading, 
as  conceived  in  the  East-Central  postal  district.  He  flung 
himself,  figuratively,  at  Mme.  Ceriolo's  feet.  He  laid  his 
heart  and  hand  at  Mme.  Ceriolo's  footstool.  He  groveled 
in  the  dust  before  Mme.  Ceriolo's  throne.  He  begged 
Mfiie.  Ceriolo  at  all  risks  and  hazards  to  make  him  the 
happiest  of  mankind  at  once  and  forever. 

And  being  human  after  all,  he  meant  it  all  as  he  said  it ; 
he  meant  every  word,  without  deduction  or  discount.  She 
was  a  devilish  fine  woman,  and  she  intoxicated  him  with 
her  presence. 

But  Mme.  Ceriolo,  with  difficulty  preserving  her  womanly 
dignity,  and  trembling  all  over  with  profound  regret,  re- 
luctantly declined  the  proffered  anatomical  specimens.  His 
heart  and  hand  she  must  perforce  deny  herself.  "  Oh,  no," 
she  answered,  "  Lionel,  dear  Lionel,  it  can  never  be.  Weak 
as  I  am,  for  your  sake  I  must  steel  myself.  What  have  I 
to  offer  you  in  return  for  your  love  ?  Nothing  but  the  bare 
shadow  of  a  noble  name — an  empty  title — a  useless  cor- 
onet.    I  won't  burden  any  further  your  youth,  that  ought 


f 


3o8 


THE   fiCAl.l.VWAG. 


to  be  so  free — while  the  uncle  lives.  If  old  Cento-Cento 
were  to  be  gathered  to  his  fathers  now — or  were  to  see 
his  way  to  making  you  a  proper  allowance — perhaps — in 

time IJut  as  it  is,  impossible  !     I  won't  even  wait  for 

you  :  I  won't  let  you  wait  for  me.     Let  us  both  be  free 

I,  at  least,  will  never  make  any  use  of  my  freedom  !  " 

Mr.  Lionel  rose  and  paced  the  salon.  "You  won't  have 
long  to  wait  !  "  he  exclaimed,  strange  thoughts  surging 
within  him.  "Marie — may  I  call  you  Marie? — oh,  thank 
you:  I  swear  it." 

Mme.  Ceriolo  dropped  back  upon  her  cushions  in  ad- 
mirable alarm.  '*  O  T,ionel,"  she  cried,  all  aghast  at  his 
boldness,  "  whatever  you  do,  whatever  you  mean — for  my 
sake  be  prudent." 


CHAPTER  XXXVL 


THE     PLAN      PROGRESSES. 


When  Lionel  Solomons  left  the  H6tel  de  I'Univers  that 
evening,  at  a  very  late  hour,  Mme.  Ceriolo  lay  back  on  her 
cushions  with  a  smiling  face  and  laughed  low  to  herself. 
"  Booked  !  "  she  murmured  under  her  breath,  much  amused. 
"Distinctly  booked  !  I've  only  got  to  play  him  carefully 
now,  and  my  fish  is  landed  !  "  For  Mme,  Ceriolo  was  not 
such  a  purist  in  her  metaphors  as  many  distinguished  critics 
would  wish  us  all  to  be.  She  thought  in  the  natural  terms 
of  everyday  humanity,  not  in  the  forced  language  pedants 
would  fain  impose  upon  us.  They  would  have  insisted 
upon  it  that  she  must  have  said  to  herself  "hooked  .'"  not 
"  booked  !  "  in  order  to  guard  against  a  mixture  of  metaph- 
ors. Only,  unfortunately,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  being 
human,  she  didn't. 


rifE  PLAN  PROGKESSES. 


309 


But  Mr.  r.ionel  went  home  much  perturbed  in  soul.  Fie 
had  let  himself  in  for  Mme.  Ccriolo  in  real  earnest  now, 
and  he  must  face  the  difificuity  he  had  himself  created  in 
his  own  path  through  life.  Money  must  be  found  some- 
how ;  money,  money,  money,  if  possible,  by  fair  means  ; 
but  if  those  failed,  then  otherwise. 

Not  that  Mr.  Lionel  repented  of  his  choice.  She  was  a 
devilish  fine  woman  and  a  real  countess.  Her  nolepaper 
was  stamped  with  an  indubitable  coronet.  She  knew  the 
world,  and  could  open  the  way  for  him  into  society  he  had 
never  as  yet  even  dreamed  of  attempting.  She  could  help 
him  to  take  down  that  prig  (iascoyne,  who  sadly  wanted 
taking  down  a  peg  or  two.  Nothing  could  be  nicer — if 
only  it  were  practicable.  But  there  came  the  rub.  If  only 
it  were  practicable  ! 

And  the  ne.xt  three  weeks  were  wholly  spent  by  Mr. 
Lionel  Solomons  in  trying  to  think  how  he  could  make  it 
all  possible. 

During  those  few  weeks  he  saw  much,  it  need  hardly  be 
said,  of  Mme.  Ceriolo.  The  countess  in  distress,  having 
once  decided  upon  her  course  of  action,  had  no  intention 
of  letting  the  grass  grow  under  her  feet.  Her  plan  was  to 
strike  while  the  iron  was  hot.  The  fish  must  be  landed 
without  delay.  So  she  devoted  her  by  no  means  inconsid- 
erable talents  to  the  congenial  task  of  gently  suggesting  to 
Lionel  Solomons  her  preconceived  solution  of  her  own 
created  problem. 

She  didn't  let  Lionel  see  she  was  suggesting  it,  of  course. 
Oh,  dear  no ;  madame  was  far  too  clever  and  too  cautious 
for  that.  To  propose,  however  remotely,  that  he  should  do 
anything  dishonorable  for  her  own  dear  sake  would  be 
inartistic  and  disenchanting.  The  countess  in  distress 
played  her  cards  more  cleverly.  She  only  made  him  feel, 
by  obscure    innuendoes,   and   ingenious    half-hints,   how 


m 


3«o 


Tin-:  SCALLYWAG. 


^'%\ 


admirable  a  thing  it  would  be  in  the  abstract  «f  the  money 
that  lay  in  Mr.  Solomons'  safe  could  be  transferred  without 
difficulty  to  the  bottom  of  his  nephew's  waistcoat  pocket. 
Mme.  Ccriolo  had  no  intention,  indeed,  of  mixing  up  her 
own  unsullied  name  with  any  doubtful  transactions  in  the 
matter  of  the  proposed  readjustment  of  securities.  She 
avoided  all  appearance  of  evil  with  religious  avoidance. 
During  a  longer  course  of  life  than  she  cared  to  admit  even 
to  her  own  looking-glass  she  had  carefully  kept  outside  the 
law  courts  of  her  country.  She  hadn't  the  slightest  idea 
of  entering  them  now  If  swindling  must  be  done,  let 
others  svviixlle  ;  'twas  hers  to  batten  innocently  on  the 
booty  of  the  swindled.  Her  cue  was  to  urge  on  Mr.  Lionel 
by  vague  suggestions  that  sugnjested  nothing — to  let  him 
think  he  was  planning  the  whole  thing  himself,  when,  in 
reality,  he  was  going  blindfolded  whither  his  charmer  led 
him. 

Nor  was  it  part  of  her  design,  either,  to  commit  herself 
unreservedly  to  Mr.  Lionel  for  any  lengthened  period.  She 
saw  in  him  a  considerable  temporary  convenience,  whose 
pickings  might  even  be  judiciously  applied  to  the  more 
secure  capture  of  Armitage,  or  some  other  equally  eligible 
person,  in  the  remoter  future.  Funds  were  necessary  for 
the  further  prosecution  of  the  campaign  of  life  ;  Mr. 
Lionel  might  well  consider  himself  flattered  in  being 
selected  as  the  instrument  for  supplying  the  sinews  of  war 
for  the  time  being  to  so  distinguished  a  strategist. 

So  Mme.  Ceriolo  contrived  to  spread  her  net  wide,  and 
to  entangle  her  young  admirer  artfully  within  its  cunning 
coils. 

It  was  a  Sunday  in  autumn — that  next  succeeding  autumn 
— and  madame  lolled  once  more  upon  those  accustomed 
cushions.  To  loll  suited  the  Ceriolo  figure  ;  it  suggested 
most  amply  the  native  voluptuousness  of  the  Ceriolo  charms. 


TItF.   ri.AN  PROCNESSES. 


3" 


"  Zdbie,"  Mine.  Ceriolo  called  cut  to  her  faithful  attend- 
ant, '*  put  away  those  (lowers  into  my  bedroom,  will  you  ? 
They  are  the  Armitaj^e's,  and  the  Armitay;e  must  besternly 
ignored.  Set  the  ugly  little  Jew's  bou(|uet  here  by  my 
side.  And  listen,  imbecile  ;  don't  go  grinning  like  that. 
I  expect  the  little  Jew  himself  to  drop  in  this  afternoon. 
Entends-tu  done,  stupidi' 1  The  ugly  little  Jew,  I  tell  you, 
is  coming.  Show  him  up  at  once,  the  minute  he  arrives, 
and  for  the  rest,  whoever  comes,  *  Madiime  ne  rtfoit  pas 
aiijourd'/iui ;'  now,  do  you  hear  me,  image  ?  " 

"  Oiti,  Madamf*'  Kus^'bie  answered  with  imperturbable 
good  humor.  "Though  I  should  think  madame  ought 
almost  to  have  cleared  out  the  little  Jew  by  this  time." 

"  Z^bie,"  madame  answered  with  a  not  untlattered  smile, 
**  you  meddle  too  much.  You  positively  presume.  I  shall 
have  to  speak  of  your  conduct,  I  fear,  to  the  patron.  You 
are  of  an  impertinence — oh,  of  an  impertinence  !  What  is 
it  to  you  why  I  receive  this  gentleman  ?     His  alterations  are 

s\.i\ci\y  pour  lebon  motif.     Were  it  otherwise "    Madame 

leaned  back  on  her  cushions  and  composed  her  face  with 
profound  gravity  into  the  severest  imitation  of  the  stern 
British  matron.  •'  Go,  Zebie,"  she  continued.  "  This  levity 
surprises  me.  Besides,  I  rather  think  I  hear — on  sonne. 
Go  down  and  bring  him  up.  It's  the  ugly  little  Jew — I 
know  his  footstep." 

"  Lionel  !  "  Mme.  Ceriolo  was  exclaiming  a  moment 
later,  her  left  hand  pressed  unobtrusively  about  the  region 
of  her  heart,  to  still  its  beating,  and  her  right  hand  extended 
with  effusion  to  greet  him.  "  I  hardly  expected  you  would 
come  to-day  !  A  pleasure  unexpected  is  doubly  pleasant. 
Sit  down,  dear  heart " — in  German  this  last — "  let  me  take 
a  good  look  at  you  now.     So  delighted  to  see  you  !  " 

Mr.  Lionel  sat  down,  and  twirled  his  hat.  His  charmer 
gazed  at  him,  but  he  hardly  heeded  her.     He  talked  for 


3«» 


THE  SCAI.r.YWAG. 


I 


some  mimitcs  with  a  preoccupied  air.  Mine.  Ccriolo  didn't 
fail  to  note  that  some  n)ore  important  subject  than  the 
weather  and  the  theater,  on  both  which  he  touched  in  pass, 
in;^  with  li;;ht  li|)s,  engrossed  his  soul.  IJiit  she  wailed 
patiently.  She  let  him  go  on,  and  went  on  herself,  as 
becomes  young  love,  with  these  minor  matters. 

"  And  .so  i\fi\:^noni'tlc  was  good  ?"  she  said,  throwing 
volumes  into  her  glance.  **  I'm  sorry  I  wasn't  able  to  go 
with  you  myself.  'I'hal  box  rtv/.?a  temptation.  Hut  I  think, 
you  know — so  long  as  nothing  definite  can  be  arranged 
between  ns,"  and  she  sighed  gently,  "  it's  best  I  shouUln'l 
be  seen  with  you  too  much  in  public.  A  woman,  and  espec- 
ially a  woman  qui  court  le  monde  loute  sfule,  can't  be  too 
careful,  you  see,  to  avoid  being  talked  about.  If  only  for 
your  sake,  Lionel,  I  can't  be  too  careful." 

Mr.  Lionel  twirled  his  hat  more  violently  than  ever. 

"  Well,  that's  just  what  I've  come  to  talk  to  you  about, 
Marie,"  he  said  with  some  awkwardness — though  he  called 
her  plain  Marie  quite  naturally  now.  "'So  long  as  nothing 
definite  can  be  arranged  between  us,'  you  say.  Well,  there 
it  is,  you  see  ;  I  want  to  put  things  at  last  upon  a  definite 
basis.  The  question  is,  are  you  or  are  you  not  prepared  to 
trust  yourself  implicitly  to  my  keeping  ?" 

The  countc-ss  in  distress  started  with  a  well-designed 
start. 

"O  Lionel,"  she  cried,  like  a  girl  of  sixteen,  "do  you 
really,  really,  really  mean  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  really  mean  it,"  Mr.  Lionel  answered,  much 
flattered  at  her  youthful  emotion.  "I've  worked  it  all  out, 
and  I  think  I  do  see  my  way  clear  before  me  in  essentials 
at  last.  But  before  I  take  any  serious  step  I  wish  you'd 
allow  me  to  explain  at  full  to  you." 

"  No,  no,"  Mme.  Ceriolo  answered,  clapping  her  hands 
on  her  ears  and  turning  upon  him  with  a  magnificent  burst 


of  feni 
hear. 

if  you  I 
don't  \| 

untrue 
have  s(| 
And! 
book  ll 
Lionel'l 
should 
crimiiu 
too  wel 
accomi 
Lion 
gestive 
he  kept 
"At 
did,  Ma 
me  ?  " 

"  An)^ 
of  surpi 
credible 
you  die 
dearest 
would  I 
know  t 
excusec 
for  tny  : 
The 
hand  te 
ever  I  i 
"Ev< 
trust,  " 
hand. 


THE  PI. AX  PA*OaK ESSES. 


31J 


of  feminine  weakness  and  trustfulness.  •*  I'd  rather  not 
hear.  I'd  rather  know  nothing,  ll's  (|iiite  cnout^h  for  nio 
if  you  say  you  can  do  it.  I  don't  want  to  he  told  how.  I 
don't  want  to  ask  why.  I  feel  sure  you  could  do  nothing 
untrue  or  dishonorable.  I'm  content  if  you  tell  me  you 
have  solved  our  problem." 

And,  indeed,  as  a  nKitler  of  fact,  it  suited  Mme.  Ceriolo's 
book  best  to  be  able  to  plead  entire  ignorance  of  Mr. 
I.ionel's  doings,  in  case  that  imprudent  young  gentleman 
should  ever  liappen  to  find  himself  face  to  face  with  a 
criminal  prosecution.  She  knew  the  chances  of  the  game 
too  well.  Sho  preferred  to  pose  as  dupe  rather  than  as 
accomplice. 

Fjionel  Solomons  winced  a  little  at  that  painfully  .5ujf. 
gestive  clause,  *•  untrue  or  dishonorable,"  but  for  all  that 
he  kept  his  own  counsel. 

"  At  any  rate"  he  went  on  more  cautiously,  *'  whatever  I 
did,  Marie,  I  liwpe  and  trust  you  wouldn't  be  angry  with 
me  ?  " 

'*A»ir,y  ^vith  you  ?  "  tlie  Ceriolo  echoed  in  a  blank  tone 
of  surprise.  "  Angry  with  you,  Lionel  !  Impossible  !  In- 
credible  !  Inconceivable  !  How  could  I  be  ?  Whatever 
you  did  and  whatever  you  dared  would  be  right,  /f  mf, 
dearest  one.  How  ever  the  world  might  judge  it,  I  at  least 
would  understand  and  appreciate  your  motives,  I  would 
know  that  your  love,  your  love  for  me,  sanctified  and 
excused  whatever  means  you  might  be  compelled  to  adopt 
for  f/iy  sake,  Lionel  !  " 

The  young  man  leaned  forward  and  pressed  that  plump 
hand  tenderly.  "  Then  you'll  forgive  me,"  he  said,  "  what- 
ever I  may  risk  for  you  ? " 

"  Everything,"  Mme.  Ceriolo  answered  with  innocent 
trust,  •*  provided  you  don't  explain  to  me  and  ask  me  before- 
hand.    I  have  perfect  confidence  in  "our  wisdom  and  your 


:l|' 


iM 


■il 


314 


THE  SCALLYWAG. 


:i 

1 

] 

\ 

hoiu)r/'  And,  as  she  said  the  last  words,  she  looked  up  in 
his  face  with  a  guileless  look  that  quite  took  him  captive. 
For  guileless  as  it  was,  Lionel  Solomons  somehow  felt  in  his 
heart  of  hearts  that  Mme.  Ceriolo,  in  the  most  delicate 
and  graceful  manner  possible,  had  mentally  winked  at  him. 
And  the  consciousness  of  that  infantile  implied  wink  set 
him  at  his  ease,  on  moral  grounds  at  any  rate. 

"We  shall  have  to  leave  England,"  he  went  on  after  a 
brief  pause,  during  which  his  siren  had  been  steadily  trans- 
fixing him  with  those  liquid  eyes  of  hers. 

'♦  That's  nothing  to  me,"  madame  responded  passion- 
ately,  in  soft,  low  tones.  '•  Where  those  I  love  are  with  me, 
there  is  my  home.  Besides,  all  Europe  is  pretty  much  the 
same  to  a  woman  who  has  traveled  as  long  as  I  have  done." 
She  sighed  once  more.  *'  I've  been  buffeted  about  the 
world,"  she  went  on,  with  a  pathetic  cadence,  '•  in  many 
strange  places — Italy,  Germany,  Russia,  Spain — it's  all  one 
to  me." 

"  Spain  won't  do  though,"  Mr.  Lionel  responded  briskly, 
half  letting  out  his  secret  in  the  candor  of  private  life  (as 
encouraged  by  madame).  "  Spain's  played  out,  they  say. 
No  good  any  longer.  A  xian's  no  safer  there  since  the  last 
treaty  than  anywhere  else  on  the  Continent." 

"  I  don't  quite  understand  you,"  madame  went  on,  once 
more,  with  that  infantile  smile  repeated  for  hi,  benefit  half 
as  a  wink  and  half  as  a  warning.  "  We  shall  be  safe  wher- 
ever we  go,  dear  heart,  if  we're  true  to  one  another. 
Spain  would  be  as  good  as  anywhere  else,  L'onel." 

"  Well,  I  don't  mean  to  go  there,  anyhow,"  Mr.  Lionel 
rejoined  with  prudent  vagueness.  "  Marie — can  you 
follow  me — across  the  broad  Atlantic  ? " 

The  Ceriolo  gave  a  start  of  pleased  surprise. 

Nothing  on  earth  wouid  suit  her  plans  so  well.  iLwas 
she  herself  who,  by  dexterous  remarks,  hpropos  des  hottes,  had 


^ - 


,\ 


THE  PLAN  PROGRESSES. 


3^5 


first  put  into  his  head  the  notion  of  South  America  as  a 
possible  i)lace  of  refuge  from  impertinent  inquiry.  But  he 
didn't  know  that  himself ;  he  thought  he  had  hit  upon  it  all 
of  his  own  mere  motion.  And  he  waited  anxiously  after 
playing  this  viry  doubtful  card  ;  while  madame,  pretending 
to  be  taken  aback  with  astonishment,  turned  it  over  in  her 
own  mind  with  sudden  lovesick  infatuation. 

•*  With  you,  Lionel,"  she  cried,  seizing  his  hand  in  hers, 
and  pressing  it  to  her  lips,  ecstatically,  *'  I  could  go  to  the 
world's  end — anywhere — everywhere  !  " 

And,  indeed,  if  it  came  to  that,  the  nearer  the  world's 
end  she  got,  the  easier  would  it  be  for  her  to  leave  Mr. 
Lion  1  in  the  lurch  as  soon  as  she  was  done  with  him.  In 
Paris  or  Madrid  he  might  get  in  her  way  in  the  end  and  de- 
feat her  purpose  ;  but  in  Rio  or  Buenos  Ayres  he  would  be 
harmless  to  hurt  her,  when,  the  orange  once  sucked  dry, 
she  turned  her  wandering  baik  anew  toward  the  lodestar 
of  London  in  search  of  Armitage. 

*  Thank  you,"  Mr.  Lionel  said  with  warmth,  and  em- 
traced  her  tenderly, 

"Will  it  be  New  York  ? "  Mme,  Ceriolo  asked,  gazing 
up  at  him  yet  again  with  infinite  trustfulness.  "  Or  do 
you  prefer  Philadelphia  ?  " 

"Well,  neither,  M^rie,"  Mr.  Lionel  answered,  fearing 
once  more  he  might  rouse  suspicion  or  disgust  in  that 
innocent  bosom,  "  I  think — the — peculiar  circumstances 
under  which  we  must  sail  will  compel  our  port  to  be 
Buenos  Ayres." 

"  That's  a  long  way  off,"  madame  mused  resignedly,  "  a 
very  long  way  off  indeed.  But  where  you  are,  Lionel,  I 
shall  be  happy  for  ever." 

The  unfortunate  young  dupe  endeavore  ^  to  hedge. 
Mme.  Ceriolo  was  forcing  his  hand  too  fast. 

"Well,  I  don't  say  yet  I've  made  my  mind  up  to  go,"  he 


'fri 


il 


3i6 


y/y/i  scALLYiyAa, 


continued  hastily.  "  Tiiere  are  coiuingencies  that  may 
occur  which  might  easily  prevent  it.     If  my  uncle " 

Mme.  Ceriolo  clapped  her  hand  promptly  upon  his 
mouth, 

"Not  one  word,"  she  exclaimed  with  fervor,  ''about  old 
Cento-Cento.  He's  a  bad  old  man  not  to  make  things 
easier  for  you.  It's  a  sin  and  a  shame  you  shouldn't  be 
able  to  come  into  your  own  and  live  comfortably  without 
expatriation.  I  won't  hear  the  ancient  wretch's  name  so 
much  as  uttered  in  my  presence.  When  you've  finally  emi- 
grated, and  we  settle  down  on  your  quiet  little  farm  in 
South  America  for  life,  1  shall  write  to  the  old  '  orror  and 
just  tell  him  what  I  think  of  him." 

"  Oh,  no,  you  won't,"  Mr.  Lionel  interposed  hastily. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  will,"  Mme.  Ceriolo  persisted,  all  smiles. 

Mr.  Lionel  glanced  across  at  her  in  doubt  once  more. 
Was  she  really  so  childishly  innocent  as  she  seemed  ?  Or 
was  she  only  doing  it  al'  just  to  keep  up  appearances?  He 
was  almost  half  a.iaid  she  really  meant  what  she  said.  For 
a  moment  he  faltered.  Was  it  safe,  after  all,  to  run  away 
with  this  guileless  creature  ? 

Mme.  Ceriolo  read  the  passing  doubt  in  his  eye.  And 
she  answered  it  characteristically.  She  drew  out  from  b-^r 
pocket  a  little  packet  of  thin  rice-papers  and  a  pouch  of 
delicately  scented  Russian  tobacco. 

"  Let  me  roll  you  a  cigarette,"  she  said,  peering  deep 
into  his  eyes.  Her  gaze  was  full  of  unspeakable  compre- 
hension. 

"  Thanks,"  he  answered.  And  she  pioceeded  to  roll  it. 
How  deftly  those  plump  but  dainty  little  fingers  did  their 
familiar  work !  He  watched  and  admired.  What  a 
magical  charm,  to  be  sure,  that  fawn-eyed  countess  cc;  ii^d 
about  with  her  !  He  took  the  cigarette  from  her  haiidii, 
and  she  held  the  match  herself  to  him.     Then  she  went  on 


THE  FLAX  PKOGRESSF.S. 


317 


to  roll  a  second  for  herself.  As  soon  as  it  was  finished  she 
placed  ic  jaui:tily  between  those  rich  red  lips  and  lighted  it 
from  his.  How  their  eyes  met  and  darted  contagious  fire 
as  she  putted  and  drew  in  at  two  cigarettes'  length  of  dist- 
ance between  their  faces  !  Then  madame  leaned  back  on 
the  pillows  and  puffed  away,  not  vigorously,  but  with 
languid  and  long-drawn  enjoyment.  Lionel  had  seen  her 
smoke  so  a  dozen  times  before  ;  but  this  time  the  action 
had  a  special  significance  for  him.  She  smoked  like  a 
woman  to  the  manner  born.  How  impossible  to  conceive 
that  a  person  who  handled  her  cigarette  like  that  could 
be  quite  so  blindly  innocent  as  his  charmer  pretended 
to  be  ! 

And  if  not  so  innocent,  why,  hang  it  all  !  what  a  clever 
little  actress  and  schemer  she  was  !  How  admirably  she 
let  him  see,  without  one  incriminating  word  ever  passing 
between  them,  that  she  knew  and  approved  exactly  what 
he  intended. 

"  So  we  understand  one  another  ?  "  he  asked  leaning  over 
her,  all  intoxicated. 

And  madame,  pausing  to  blow  out  a  long,  slow  curre  -t 
of  thin  blue  ti  oke  from  between  her  pursed  up  lips,  an- 
swered at  last,  gazing  hard  once  more  into  the  depths  of 
his  eyes  : 

"  We  understand  one  another  perfectly.  Make  what 
arrangements  you  choose  and  take  your  passage  when  you 
like.     I  am  only  yours.     What  day  do  you  fix  ?" 

"  For — the  ceremony  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Saturday." 


t 


M 


T^* 


'ii 


I 


I, .:  ■ 
I',' 


318  THE   SCALLYWAG. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

THE    PLAN    IN    ACTION. 

To  finish  all  needful  preparations  by  Saturday  was  very 
hard  work  indeed  ;  but  having  plighted  his  troth  thus 
hastily  to  lady  fair — as  fair  as  pearl  powder  and  crime  de 
Ninon  could  make  her — Mr.  Lionel  Solomons  would  have 
b  ;"•'  loth  in  heart  to  fail  her  at  a  pinch  !  and  he  strained 
evc  erve  accordingly  to  complete  his  arrangements  by 
the  date  agreed  upon. 

And  yet,  there  was  a  great  deal,  a  very  great  deal  to  do 
meanwhile.  Let  alone  certain  important  but  doubtful 
elements  in  the  case,  which  Mme.  Ceriolo  in  her  pru- 
dence would  not  so  much  as  permit  to  be  named  before 
her,  other  more  prosaic  and  ordinary  preparations  had  still 
to  be  performed,  as  per  act  of  Parliament  in  that  case  made 
and  provided.  There  was  the  paternal  blessing  of  the 
most  Reverend  Father  in  God,  the  Archbishop  of  Canter- 
bury, to  be  obtained  for  this  propitious  union,  on  a  piece 
of  stamped  paper  duly  sealed  and  delivered  ;  for  Mme. 
Ceriolo,  true  to  her  principles  to  the  last,  intended  to  be  mar- 
ried with  all  proper  solemnities  to  Mr.  Lionel  Solomons  in 
a  building  legally  set  apart  for  the  solemnization  of  matri- 
mony, in  accordance  with  the  rite  and  ceremonies  of  the 
Church  of  England  as  by  law  established.  No  registrar's 
office  or  hole-and-corner  proceedings  of  doubtful  respecta- 
bility would  suit  madame's  delicate  sense  of  the  becoming 
in  these  profound  matters ;  she  must  be  married,  if  at  all, 
by  special  license,  and  according  to  the  rites  of  that  Church 
in  which,  as  she  often  remarked,  her  dear  mamma's  father 
had  formerly  been  a  distinguished  and  respected  dignitary. 
To  be  sure,  onc9  tied  to  Mr.  Lionel  Solomons  by  this  strin- 


\i}\ 


THE   PLAN  IN  ACTION. 


3»9 


iry. 


gent  bond,  there  might  be  difficulties  in  tlie  way  of  getting 
rid  of  him  hereafter  ;  but,  like  a  wise  woman,  madame 
resolved  to  take  short  views  and  chance  them.  It's  belter 
to  be  decently  married  even  to  a  man  you  mean  to  suck  dry 
and  desert  when  completely  drained,  than  to  create  a 
scandal.  A  separation  between  married  folks  is  nowadays 
almost  fashionable,  and  certainly  not  under  the  ban  of  the 
omnipotent  Mrs.  Grundy.  And  who  knows  what  becomes 
of  a  beggared  man  in  Buenos  Ayres?  Mme.  Ceriolo 
trusted  to  the  noble  modern  principles  of  natural  selection 
to  improve  Mr.  Lionel  shortly  off  the  face  of  the  earth  in 
those  remote  parts  ;  and,  at  any  rate,  she  felt  that  she  was 
doing  the  very  best  possible  for  herself  at  present  in  marry- 
ing him. 

Mr.  Lionel,  for  his  part,  showed  unwonted  energy  in  get- 
ting everything  ready  beforehand  for  that  eventful  Satur- 
day. After  procuring  his  license,  and  securing  his  berths, 
and  engaging  his  parson,  and  making  his  way  in  every 
respect  clear  before  him,  he  ran  down,  at  last,  on  the 
Thursday  of  that  eventful  week  to  Hillborough.  Every- 
thing depended  now  on  the  success  of  his  visit.  If  he 
could  succeed  in  what  he  wanted,  all  would  be  well  ;  if  not, 
he  would  have  the  mortification  and  chagrin  on  Saturday 
of  confessing  to  the  Ceriolo  a  com\i\eiQ  fiasco. 

On  the  way  down,  the  Southeastern  Railway  Company's 
suburban  train,  making  its  wonted  pace,  gave  Mr.  Lionel  in 
his  comfortable  smoking  compartment  ample  time  for 
meditation  and  reflection.  And  Mr.  Lionel,  turning  all 
things  quietly  over  with  himself,  came  to  the  conclusion,  in 
cold  blood,  that  after  all  he  was  doing  the  very  best  thing 
for  himself  in  thus  anticipating  his  uncle's  testamentary 
disposition.  Mr.  Solomons,  the  elder,  had  frequently 
explained  to  him  that  all  the  money  he  had  ground  out  of 
the  Gascoynes  anti  all  bis  other  clients  by  slow  process, 


I 


% 


jao 


THE   SC/ILLYWAG. 


m 


i\A'\ 


IL 


was  intended  in  the  end,  wholly  and  solely,  for  Mr.  Lionel's 
own  personal  use  and  benefit.  "  It's  all  for  your  sake  I  do 
it,  Leo,"  Mr.  Solomons  had  said  to  him  deprecatingly  more 
than  once.  "  It's  all  for  you  that  I  slave  and  hoard,  and 
wear  myself  out  without  getting  any  reasonable  return  in 
in  life  for  it." 

And  in  a  certain  sense  Mr.  Lionel  knew  that  was  true. 
His  uncle  made  and  hoarded  money,  to  be  sure,  because  to 
make  and  hoard  money  was  the  instinct  of  his  kind  ;  but 
Mr.  Lionel  was  the  conscious  end  in  view  for  which  as 
immediate  object  he  made  and  hoarded  it.  Still,  Mr.  Lionel 
reflected  to  himself  in  his  unprejudiced  way,  what  was  the 
good  of  money  to  a  man  of  fifty  ?  And  if  Uncle  Judah 
went  on  living  forever,  as  one  might  expect,  in  spite  of  his 
heart  (for  creaking  doors  last  long),  he,  Lionel,  would  be 
certainly  fifty  or  thereabouts  before  he  had  the  slightest 
chance  of  touching  one  penny  of  it.  It  was  absurd  of  a 
man  to  toil  and  slave  for  his  nephew's  sake  and  then  keep 
that  nephew  out  of  his  own  indefinitely.  Mr.  Lionel  was 
prepared  to  relieve  Uncle  Judah  from  the  onus  of  that 
illogical  and  untenable  situation  ;  he  was  prepared  to  carry 
out  his  uncle's  implied  desire  in  a  manner  more  intelligent 
and  more  directly  sensible  than  his  uncle  contemplated. 

At  any  time  of  his  life,  indeed,  he  would  have  thought 
the  same ;  he  had  often  thought  it  before,  though  he  had 
never  dared  to  act  upon  it.  But  the  great  use  of  a  woman 
in  this  world  is  that  she  supplies  an  efficient  stimulus  to 
action.  Mme.  Ceriolo's  clever  and  well-directed  hints  had 
rendered  actual  these  potential  impulses  of  Lionel's.  She 
had  urged  him  forward  to  do  as  he  thought  ;  to  take  time 
by  the  forelock,  and  realize  at  once  his  uncle's  savings. 
He  was  prepared  now  to  discount  his  future  fortune — at  a 
modest  percentage  ;  to  take  at  once  what  would  in  any  case 
be  his  on  his  uncle's  death,  for  an  immediate  inheritance, 


I   1 


THE  PLAX  IN  ACTIOX. 


321 


At  fifty,  of  what  use  would  it  be  to  himself  and  his  coun- 
tess ?  And  what  worlds  of  fun  they  could  get  out  of  it 
nowadays  ! 

Mnie.  Ceriolo,  indeed,  had  for  many  weeks  been  care- 
fully instilling  that  simple  moral,  by  wide  generalizations 
and  harmless  copy-book  maxims,  into  his  receptive  soul  ; 
and  the  seed  she  sowed  had  fallen  on  strictly  appropriate 
soil,  and,  springing  up  well,  was  now  to  bring  forth  fruit  in 
vigorous  action.  A  man,  madame  had  assured  him  more 
than  once,  should  wisely  plan  and  boldly  execute  ;  and, 
having  attained  his  end,  should  sit  down  in  |)eace  under  his 
own  vine  and  fig  tree  to  rest  and  enjoy  himself.  None  but 
the  brave  deserve  the  fair  ;  and  when  the  brave  had  risked 
much  for  the  sake  of  a  countess  in  distress,  she  must  be 
cruel,  indeed,  if,  after  that,  she  found  it  in  her  heart  to 
blame  or  upbraid  him. 

So  Mr.  Lionel  sped  slowly  on  his  way  southward,  well 
satisfied  in  soul  that  he  was  doing  the  best  in  the  end  for 
himself  and  his  charmer  ;  and  little  trembling  for  the  suc- 
cess of  his  vigorous  plan  of  acti.on. 

When  he  reached  Hillborough  and  his  uncle's  office  he 
found  Mr.  Solomons  very  red  in  the  face  with  suppressed 
excitement  from  a  recent  passage  at  arms  with  the  local 
attorney. 

"  That  fellow  Wilkie  wanted  to  cheat  me  out  of  two  and 
fourpence  costs,  Leo,"  Mr.  Solomons  exclaimed  indig- 
nantly, in  explanation  of  his  ruffled  temper  and  suffused 
cheeks  ;  "  but  I  wouldn't  stand  that^  you  know  ;  I've  had 
it  out  with  him  fairly,  and  I  don't  think  he'll  try  it  on  with 
me  a  secon  '  time,  the  low  pettifogging  creature." 

"  It's  made  you  precious  pink  about  the  gills,  anyway," 
Mr.  Lionel  retorted  with  cheerful  sympathy,  seating  himself 
lazily  in  the  easy-chair,  and  gazing  up  at  his  uncle's  rotund 
face  4nd  figure.    And  indeed  Mr,  Solomons  was  very  flushed 


f! 

\:>\ 

i 

1 

': 

••I  ' 


323 


TlfE   SCALLYWAG. 


i 

!   ! 


.  t 


111 


— flushed,  his  nephew  observed,  with  a  certain  deep  blue 
lividness  around  the  lips  and  eyes,  wiiich  often  indicates  the 
later  stages  of  heart-disease.  Certain  qualms  of  conscience 
rose  that  moment  in  Mr.  Lionel's  soul.  Was  he  going  to 
render  himself  liable  to  criminal  proceedings,  then,  all  for 
nothing?  If  he  waited  a  few  weeks,  or  months,  or  seasons, 
would  the  pear  drop  ripe  from  the  branch  of  its  own  ac- 
cord ?  Was  he  anticipating  nature  dangerously  when,  if  he 
held  on  in  quiet  a  little  longer,  nature  herself  would  bring 
him  his  inheritance  ?  These  were  practical  questions  that 
Mr.  Lionel's  conscience  could  readily  understand,  while  on 
more  abstract  planes,  perhaps,  it  would  have  been  deaf  as 
an  adder.  Uncle  Judah's  heart  was  clearly  getting  very 
much  the  worse  for  wear.  He  might  pop  off  any  day.  Why 
seek  to  get  by  foul  means  what  would  be  his  in  time  by  fair, 
if  only  he  cared  to  watch  and  wait  for  it  ? 

Pshaw  !  It  was  too  late  for  such  sq«ic:»mishness  now. 
With  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury's  blessing  in  his  desk, 
and  the  Royal  Mail  Steam  Company's  receipt  for  berths 
per  steamship  Dom  Pedro ,X.o  Buenos  Ayres  direct  in  his 
trousers  pocket,  he  couldn't  turn  back  at  the  eleventh  hour 
and  await  contingencies.  Threatened  men  live  long.  It's 
no  good  counting  upon  heart-disease  ;  the  very  worst  hearts 
go  beating  on  for  years  and  years  with  most  annoying  regu- 
larity. Besides,  what  would  Marie  say  if  he  returned  to 
town  and  told  her  lamely  that  his  plans  had  fallen  through, 
and  that  he  must  decline  to  marry  her,  as  per  agreement  ar- 
ranged, on  Saturday  morning  ?  When  you've  made  up  your 
mind  to  wed  the  charmer,  who  has  enslaved  your  heart,  at 
the  week's  end,  you  can't  put  her  off  on  Thursday  afternoon 
at  two  days'  notice.  Come  what  might  now  he  must  pull 
this  thing  through.  He  must  carry  out  his  plan  as  settled 
upon  at  all  hazard. 

**  I'm  glad  you've  come,  though,  Leo,"  Mr.  Solomons  re- 


77/A    ri.AX  IX  ACTION. 


3*3 


led 


re- 


plied, putting  his  necktie  straight,  and  endeavoring  to  com- 
pose his  riifiled  temper.  **  I've  a  great  many  things  I  want 
to  talk  over  with  you.  I'd  like  your  aiivice  about  sundry 
securities  I  hold  in  my  hands  :  especially  as  to  selling 
those  Central  Southern  Railway  Debentures." 

Mr.  Lionel's  eyes  glistened  as  his  uncle  rose  ten  minutes 
later,  after  some  further  parley  on  business  matters,  and 
went  over  to  the  safe,  where  the  papers  which  represented 
his  wealth  were  duly  pigeon-holed.  Mow  pat !  I  low  op- 
portune !  He  had  fallen  on  his  feet  indeed  :  this  was  pre- 
cisely the  exact  chance  he  needed.  Mr.  Salomons  drew  out 
the  various  securities  one  by  one,  and  discussed  with  loving 
cadences  their  different  values.  All  yours,  all  yours,  Leo, 
my  dear,"  he  murmured  more  than  once,  as  he  fingered 
them  gingerly.  *'  You'll  be  a  rich  man,  Leo,  when  you  come 
into  your  own.  (las  and  Coke  Company's  A'.;  yield  twelve 
percent,  to  original  investors,  of  which  I  was  one.  Twelve 
per  cent,  is  very  good  interest  as  times  go  nowadays  on  that 
class  of  security  ;  excellent  interest.  No  risk,  no  difficulty  ; 
nothing  to  do  but  to  sit  in  your  easy-chair,  with  your  legs 
in  the  air,  and  draw  your  dividends.  Not  my  style  of  busi- 
ness, you  know,  Leo  ;  too  slow  for  me  ;  I  like  something 
that  gives  me  good  returns  .?..d  close  pickings,  and  some 
fun  for  one's  money  ;  but  for  your  sake,  my  dear  boy,  I 
like  to  have  a  little  reserve  fund  put  away  safely.  It's  bet- 
ter than  all  these  speculative  investments  after  all,  Leo." 

"  Certainly,"  Mr.  Lionel  a^-sented  with  promptitude. 
"Something  that  c^n  be  called  in  and  realized  at  any 
moment.  Something  one  can  turn  into  ready  cash  on  the 
open  Stock  Exchange  whenever  it's  needed.  Whereas, 
with  most  of  your  money-lending  transactions,  you  see,  you 
never  know  where  you  are — like  that  beastly  Gascoyne 
business  for  example.  Money  sunk  in  a  hole,  that's  what 
I  call  it," 


I 


n' 


324 


THE   SCAl.l.yW'AC,. 


II 


It  i 


•'  What's  that  ?  "  Mr.  Solomons  interposed  iliarply,  look- 
ing round  over  his  shoulder,  alarmed  at  the  sound  of  those 
ominous  words,  "  realized  at  any  moment."  "  Money  sunk 
in  a  hole  !  Nothijig  of  the  sort,  I  give  you  my  word,  I.eo. 
Here's  the  papers  all  as  straij^ht  and  businesslike  as  possi 
hie  ;  and  he's  paying  interest  monthly  ;  he's  payinj;  interest 
at  the  rate  of  twenty  per  cent,  per  annum  with  the  greiitcst 
regularity.     Sir  Paul  Gascoyne,  Hart. 's  an  honorable  party." 


led 


(1 


Mr.  Lionel  cont 
carefully  where  each  was  pigeon-holed  "  Vou  haven't  had 
these  out,"  he  said  with  a  casual  air,  observing  the  dust 
upon  them,  "  since  I  was  down  here  last.  I  see  they're 
just  as  I  put  them  back  myself  last  time." 

"  Well,  I  don't  go  to  the  safe,  not  twice  in  a  twelve- 
month, except  when  coupons  fall  due,"  his  uncle  answered 
unconcerned,  as  he  fingered  once  more  the  (iascoyne  notes- 
of-hand  with  that  loving,  lingering  touch  of  his.  '*  It's 
best  not  to  meddle  with  these  things  too  often.  They 
might  get  lying  about  loose,  and  be  mislaid  or  stolen." 

"  Quite  so,"  Mr.  Lionel  answered  dryly,  retreating  to  a 
seat,  and  running  his  fat  hand  easily  through  his  oily  locks 
while  he  regarded  the  safe  from  afar  on  his  chair  in  the 
corner  with  profound  interest.  It  sui'(d  his  game,  in  fact, 
that  Mr.  Solomons  should  visit  it  as  seldom  as  possible. 
Suppose  by  any  chance  certain  securities  should  happen  to 
be  mislaid  in  the  course  of  the  next  week  or  so,  now,  for 
example,  it  might  be  Christmas  or  thereabouts  before  Mr. 
Solomons  so  much  as  even  missed  them. 

As  they  loitered  about  and  talked  over  the  question  of 
the  Central  Southern  Debentures,  Mr.  Solomons'  boy  from 
the  office  below  poked  his  head  into  the  room  and  an- 
nounced briefly,  "  Mr.  Barr  to  see  you,  sir." 

"  I  must  run  down,  Leo,"  Mr,  Solomons  said,  glancing 
about  him  with  a  hasty  eye  at  the  bonds  and  debenture?. 


'1    '• 


ng 


Till:    riAX  IM  ACTIOS'. 


3^5 


•'  Ban*  \'  Wilkie  again  !  If  ever  there  was  a  troublesome 
set  of  men  on  earth  it's  country  attorneys.  Just  put  these 
tilings  back  into  the  safe,  there's  a  good  fellow,  ami  turn 
the  key  on  them.  The  combination's  '  Lionel.'  It's  alt 
yours,  you  see,  all  yours,  my  boy,  so  I  open  and  shut  the 
lock  with  your  name  for  a  key,  Leo."  And  he  gave  an 
affectionate  glance  at  the  oleaginous  young  man  (who  sat 
tilting  his  chair)  as  he  retreated  hurriedly  toward  the  door 
and  the  staircase. 

Thus  providentially  left  to  himself  in  full  possession,  Mr. 
Lionel  Solomons  could  hardly  refrain  from  bursting  out  at 
once  into  a  hearty  laugh.  It  was  too  funny  1  Did  there 
ever  live  on  earth  such  a  precious  old  fool  as  his  Uncle 
Judah  ?  "  It's  all  yours,  you  see  !  "  Ha,  ha,  the  humor  of 
it  !  He  should  just  think  it  was,  more  literally  now  than 
Uncle  Judah  intended.  And  he  opened  the  safe  to  the 
word  •'  Lionel  "  !  Such  ir  iocence  deserved  to  be  severely 
fleeced.  It  positively  deserved.  A  man  who  had  reached 
his  Uncle  Judah's  years  ought  surely  to  know  better  than 
leave  anybody  whatsoever — friend  or  foe — face  to  face  alone 
with  those  convertible  securities. 

When  Mr.  Lionel  Solomons  came  down  to  Hillborough, 
it  had  been  his  intention  to  spend  the  whole  of  that  night 
under  the  avuncular  roof  ;  to  possess  himself  of  the  avun- 
cular keys  and  combination  ;  and  to  rifle  that  safe,  in  fear 
and  trembling,  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning,  when  he 
meant  to  rise  on  the  plea  of  catching  the  first  train  to  Lon- 
don.  But  fate  and  that  old  fool  had  combined  to  put 
things  far  more  easily  into  his  power  for  a  moment.  All 
he  had  to  do  was  to  place  such  bonds  and  securities  as 
were  most  easily  negotiable  in  his  own  pocketbook,  to  stick 
the  worthless  Gascoyne  notes-of.hand,  as  too  cheap  for 
robbing,  in  their  accustomed  pigeon-hole,  to  lock  the  safe 
to  a  different  combination  (which  would  render  immediate 


!i 


it'i 


i 


i 


3^6 


THE  SCAl.l.  YWAG. 


detection  somewhat  less  prol)aljIc),aiul  return  the  keys  with 
the  smiling  face  uf  innuccnco  tu  his  respected  relation. 
And  as  Mr.  Lionel  was  not  without  a  touch  of  grim  humor 
in  his  conii)Osition,  he  chose  for  tlie  combination  by  wiiich 
alone  the  safe  could  next  be  opened  the  one  significant 
word  •*  Idiot."  •*  If  he  finds  that  out,"  the  dutiful  nephew 
chuckled  to  himself  merrily,  •'  wiiy,  all  I  can  say  is,  he'll  be 
a  great  deal  less  of  one  than  ever  I  take  him  to  be." 

When  Mr.  Solomons  once  more  reappeared  upon  the 
scene,  flushed  again  with  contention  with  his  natural  enemies, 
the  attorneys,  Mr.  Lionel  handed  him  back  his  bunch  of  keys 
with  perfect  sani^ftviJ,  and  merely  observed  with  a  gentle 
smile  of  superior  compassion,  *•  I  wouldn't  get  rid  of  those 
Central  Southerns  yet  a  while  if  I  were  you.  The  tightness 
won't  last.  I  don't  believe  in  these  bca'  ^  operations. 
They're  bound  to  rise  later,  with  the  half-;         '  dividend." 

And  as  Mr.  Lionel  went  back  to  town  that  same  after- 
noon in  high  good -humor,  cigarette  in  mouth  and  flower  in 
buttonhole,  he  carried  with  him  a  considerable  sum  in  stocks 
and  shares  of  the  most  marketable  cJiaracter,  every  one  of 
which  could  be  readily  turned  into  gold  or  notes  before  the 
sailing  of  the  Dom  Pedro  on  Tuesday  morning. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIU. 

ON  THE  TRACK  OF  THE  ROBBER. 

Five  days  later  Paul  Gascoyne  was  sitting  at  his  desk  in 
the  lodgings  on  Gower  Street,  working  away  with  all  his 
might  at  a  clever  middle  for  an  evening  newspaper.  Paul 
was  distinctly  successful  in  what  the  trade  technically  knows 
as  middles  ;  he  had  conquered  the  peculiarities  of  style  and 


ON  THE   THACK  OF  TIH:  HOlililiR, 


J^7 


k  in 

his 

'aul 

ows 

ind 


matter  that  go  to  make  up  that  singular  literary  product, 
and  he  had  now  invcnlcil  a  }^tnre  of  his  own  wiiich  was 
greatly  ap|)reciated  by  novelty  loving  editors.  lie  had  just 
finished  an  amusing  little  diatribe  against  the  ladylike 
gentlemen  who  go  in  for  fads  in  the  House  of  Connnons, 
and  was  polishing  up  his  manuscript  by  strengthening  his 
verbs  and  crisping  his  adjectives,  when  a  loud  knock  at  the 
door  disturbed  the  even  flow  of  his  rounded  periods  ;  and 
before  he  had  even  time  to  say,  ••  Come  in,"  the  door 
opened  of  itself,  and  M  *.  Solomons  in  person  stood  loom- 
ing large  before  him,  utterly  breathless. 

At  first  Paul  was  fairly  taken  aback  by  i^Ir.  Solomons* 
ileep  and  peculiar  color.  To  be  sure,  the  young  man  was 
accustomed  to  seeing  his  old  friend  and  creditor  red 
enough  in  the  face,  or  even  blue  ;  but  he  had  never  before 
seen  him  of  such  a  bright  cerulean  tint  as  at  that  moment  ; 
the  blueness  and  the  breathlessness  both  eciually  fright- 
ened him.  "  Take  a  chair,  Mr.  Solomons,"  he  broke  out, 
starting  up  in  surprise,  but  almost  before  the  words  were 
well  out  of  his  mouth,  Mr.  Solomons  had  sui.k  exhausted  of 
his  own  accord  on  the  sofa.  He  tried  to  speak,  but 
words  clearly  failed  him.  Only  an  inarticulate  gurgle 
gave  vent  to  his  emotions.  It  was  plain  some  terrible 
event  had  disturbed  his  equanimity.  Paul  bustled  about, 
hardly  knowing  what  to  do,  but  with  a  vague  idea  that 
brandy  and  water,  administered  cold,  might,  perhaps,  best 
meet  the  exigencies  of  the  situation. 

After  a  minute  or  two  a  very  strong  dose  of  brandy 
seemed  to  restore  Mr.  Solomons  to  comparative  tranquillity, 
though  he  was  still  undeniably  very  much  agitated.  As 
soon  as  he  could  gasp  out  a  few  broken  words,  however,  ha 
seized  his  young  friend's  hand  in  his  own,  and  ejaculated 
in  an  almost  inaudible  voice  :  "  It's  not  for  myself.  Sir 
Paul,  it's  not  for  myself  I  mind    so  much — though   even 


I  ) 


]i||' 


'  \\ 


1 1 
1 1 


3^8 


THE  SCALLYWAG. 


1 


1  '5; 


that's  terrible — but  how  can  I  ever  have  the  courage  to 
break  it  to  Leo  !  " 

"  To  break  what,  Mr.  Solomons  ? "  Paul  asked,  be- 
wildered. "What's  the  matter?  What's  happened?  Sit 
quiet  a  while,  and  then  tell  me  shortly." 

"I  can't  sit  qv.iet,"  Mr.  Solomons  answered,  rising  and 
pacing  the  room  with  a  wavering  step  and  panting  lungs; 
*'  I  can't  sit  quiet,  when,  perhaps,  the  thief's  this  very 
minute  getting  rid  of  my  valuable  .securities.  Leo  avays 
toid  me  I  should  be  robbed  ;  he  always  told  me  so  ;  but  I 
never  listened  to  him.  And  now,  poor  boy,  he's  beggared  ! 
beggared  ! " 

*'  Has  something  been  stolen,  then  ? "  Paul  ventured  to 
suggest  tentatively. 

"Something?"  Mr.  Solomons  echoed,  laying  stress  with 
profo'ind  emotion  on  that  most  inadequate  dissyllable. 
"Something?  Everything!  Every  penny  on  earth  I've 
got  to  bless  myself  with  almost — except  what's  out ;  and 
Leo,  poor  Leo,  he's  left  without  anything." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  so  !  "  Paul  exclaimed,  surprised, 
and  not  knowing  exactly  how  else  to  express  his  sympathy. 

"  Yes,"  Mr.  Solomons  continued,  seizing  the  young  man's 
hand  once  more,  and  Wiinging  it  in  his  despair  ;  "  Paul. 
Paul — I  beg  pardon,  Sir  Paul,  I  mean — but  this  loss  has 
taken  me  back  at  once  to  old  times — my  poor  boy's  ruined, 
irretrievably  ruined.  Unless  we  can  catch  the  thief,  that 
is  to  say.  Ana  I  ought  to  be  after  him  this  minute — 1 
ought  to  be  at  Scotland  Yard,  giving  notice  to  the 
police,  and  down  in  Capel  Court  to  warn  the  brokers. 
But,  I  couldn't,  I  couldn't.  I  hadn't  strength  or  breath 
left  to  do  it.  I  had  to  come  here  first  to  tell  vou  the  truth, 
and  to  get  you  to  go  with  me  to  In  erview  these  people.  If 
Leo'd  been  in  town  I'd  have  gone  straight  off,  of  course, 
to  Leo.     But  he  started   for  his  holiday  to  Switzerland 


(i 


ON    THE    TKACK  Of    7 /IE   A'0/i/iEA\ 


3-9 


on  Saturday,  and  1  doi^t  know  where  to  telegraph  to 
him,  even,  for  he  hadn't  decided  what  route  he  would  take 
when  I  last  saw  him." 

*'  How  did  it  happen  ?  "  Paul  asked,  trying  to  press  Mr. 
Solomons  into  a  chair  once  more.  '*  And  how  much  has 
been  stolen  ?  " 

"  My  safe's  been  rifled,"  Mr.  Solomons  went  on  with 
exceeding  vehemence,  going  a  livid  hue  in  the  face  once 
more.  "  It's  been  gutted  down,  every  bond  that  was  in  it 
— all  negotiable — bonds  payable  to  bearer — everything  but 
your  own  notes-of-hand,  Sir  Paul,  and  those  the  thief  left 
only  because  he  couldn't  easily  get  rid  of  them  in  London." 

"And  when  did  all  this  happ'jn  ?  "  Paul  inquired,  aghast. 

**  It  couldn't  have  been  earlier  than  Thursday  last,"  Mr. 
Solomons  replied,  still  gasping  for  breath.  "  On  Thurs- 
day Leo  came  down  to  see  me  and  tell  me  about  his  plans 
for  his  holiday,  and  I  wanted  to  consult  him  about 
the  Central  Southern  Debentures,  which  they've  been  try. 
ing  to  bear  so  persistently  of  late  ;  so  I  went  to  my  safe — 
I  don't  often  go  to  that  safe  except  on  special  business — 
and  took  out  all  my  bonds  and  securities,  and  they  were  all 
right  then.  Leo  and  I  both  saw  them  and  went  over  them  ; 
and  I  said  to  Leo,  *  This  is  all  yours,  my  boy — all  yours  in 
the  end,  you  know';  and  now  he's  beggared  !  Oh,  how 
ever  shall  I  have  the  face  to  tell  him  !  " 

"But  when  did  you  find  it  out?"  Paul  asked,  still  as 
whcMy  unsuspicious  of  the  true  state  of  affairs  as  Mr.  Solo- 
mons himself,  and  feeling  profoundly  for  the  old  man's 
distress.  For  it  ir.n't  a  small  matter,  whoever  you  may  be, 
to  lose  at  one  blow  the  savings  of  a  lifetime. 

"This  morning,"  Mr.  Solomons  answered,  wiping  his 
beaded  brow  with  his  big  silk  pocket-handkerchief.  "  This 
very  morning.  Do  you  think  I'd  have  let  a  night  pass.  Sir 
Paul,  without  getting  on  his  track  ?     When  once  I'd  discov- 


I 


m 


330 


THE  SCALLYWAG. 


%  f  s 


ii,      X-  ■ 


t.  r 


ered  it  do  you  think  I'd  have  let  him  get  all  that  start  iot 
nothing  ?  Oh,  no,  the  rascal  !  The  mean,  thieving  villain  ! 
If  1  catch  him,  he  shall  have  the  worst  the  law  can  give. 
He  shall  have  fourteen  years — 1  wish  it  was  life  !  I  wish 
we  had  the  good  old  hanging  days  back  again,  I  do  !  He 
should  swing  for  it  then  !  I  should  like  to  see  him  swing- 
ing !  To  think  he  should  try  to  beggar  my  poor  dear 
Leo  !  " 

And  then,  by  various  jerky  and  inarticulate  stages,  Mr. 
Solomons  slowly  explained  to  Paul  the  manner  of  the  dis- 
covery— how  he  had  decided  after  all,  in  view  of  suspicious 
rumors  afloat  about  the  safety  of  a  tunnel,  to  sell  the  Cen- 
tral Southern  Debentures  at  87I,  in  spite  of  Leo  ;  how 
he  had  gone  to  the  safe  and  tried  his  familiar  combina- 
tion, "Lionel";  how  the  key  had  refused  to  answer  the 
word  ;  how,  in  his  perplexity,  he  had  called  in  a  smith  to 
force  the  lock  open  by  fire  and  arms  (which,  apparently, 
was  Mr.  Solomons'  own  perversion  of  vi  et  armis  j  and  how, 
at -last,  when  he  succeeded,  he  found  the  pigeon  holes  bare, 
and  nothing  left  but  Paul's  own  notes-of-hand  for  money 
lent  and  interest.  "So,  unless  I  find  him.  Sir  Paul/' the 
old  man  cried  piteously,  wringing  his  hands  in  despair,  and 
growing  bluer  and  bluer  in  the  face  than  ever.  "  I  shall 
have  nothing  left  but  what  little's  out  and  what  you  can  pay 
me  off  ;  and  I  don't  want  to  be  a  burden  to  you — I  don't 
want  to  be  a  burden." 

"  We  must  go  down  to  Scotland  Yard  at  once  and  hunt 
up  the  thief/'  Paul  replied  resolutely.  "  And  wc  must  go 
and  stop  the  bonds  before  another  hour's  over." 

"But  he  may  have  sold  them  already!"  Mr.  Solomons 
cried,  with  a  dospondent  face.  "  The;^  were  there  on  Thurs- 
day, I  know  ;  but  how  soon  after  that  he'carried  them  off  I 
ha/en't  the  very  slightest  notion.  They  were  all  negoti- 
able— every  one  negotiable  ;  and  he  may  have  cleared  off 


% 


Oh^   THE   TRACK  OF   THE  ROB H EH. 


331 


with  the  money  or  the  bonds  by  this  time  to  Berlin  or 
Vienna." 

"You  suspect  nobody?"  Paul  asked,  drawing  on  his 
boots  to  go  down  to  Scotland  Yard. 

"I've  nobody  to  suspect,"  Mr.  Solomons  answered,  with 
a  profound  sigh.  "  Except  Leo  and  myself,  nobody  ever 
had  access  to  or  went  near  that  safe.  Nobody  knew  the 
combination  to  open  it.  But  whoever  did  it,"  and  here 
Mr.  Solomons*  lips  grew  positively  black  and  his  cheek 
darkened,  "  he  had  the  impudence  to  set  the  combination 
wrong,  and  the  word  he  set  it  to  was  '  idiot,*  if  you'll  believe 
it.  He  not  only  robbed  me,  but  he  insulted  me  as  well. 
He  took  the  trouble  to  lock  the  door  of  the  safe  to  the 
deliberately  insolent  word  *  idiot.'  " 

"That's  very  curious,"  Paul  said.  "He  must  have  had 
time  to  waste  if  he  could  think  of  doing  that.  A  midnight 
thief  would  have  snatched  the  bonds  and  left  the  safe  op*^n." 

"  No,"  Mr.  Solomons  answered  with  decision  and  with 
prompt  business  insight.  "  He  wouldn't  have  done  that ; 
for  then  I'd  hav^  k  ;Own  I'd  been  robbed  at  once,  and  I'd 
have  come  up  to  town  by  the  very  next  tram  and  prevented 
his  negotiating  The  man  that  took  them  would  want  to 
sell  them.  It  all  depends  U[)on  whether  he's  had  time  for 
managing  that.  They're  securities  to  bea  .-r  that  can  pass 
from  hand  to  hand  like  a  fi'pun  note.  If  he  took  them 
Friday,  he'd  Saturday  and  Monday.  If  he  took  them 
Saturday,  he'd  Mouday,  and  that's  all.  But  then  we  can't 
tell  whete  he's  been  likely  to  sell  t^-  ;.  Some  of  'em  he 
could  sell  in  Paris  or  in  Liverpool  as  easy  as  in  London. 
And  from  Liverpool  he  could  clear  out  at  once  to  America." 

They  went  down  the  stairs  even  as  he  spoke  to  Mr. 
Solomons*  hansom,  which  was  waiting  at  the  door. 

"  It's  strange  you  can't  think  of  any  likely  person  to  have 
done  it,"  Paul  said  as  they  got  into  it. 


lit*. 


ni 


1  ''^ 
^1 II 


"% 


332 


THE    SCAIJA'WAG. 


1  i 


1:^ 


I?   \ 


i 


he 

! 


If : 


"  Ah,  if  Leo  were  in  town  !  "  Mr.  Solomons  exclaimed, 
with  much  dejection.  "  He'd  soon  hunt  'em  \\\i.  Leo's  so 
smart.  He'd  spot  the  thief  like  one  o'clock.  Ikit  he's 
gone  on  his  holiday,  and  I  can't  tell  where  to  find  him. 
Sir  Paul,  I  wouldn't  mind  so  much  if  it  was  only  for  myself ; 
but  how  can  I  ever  tell  Leo  ?     How  can  I  break  it  to  Leo  ? " 

And  Paul,  reflecting  silently  to  himself,  was  forced  to 
admit  that  the  revelation  would  doubtless  put  a  '^^vere  :*^rain 
upon  Mr.  Lionel  Solomons'  family  affection. 

At  Scotland  Yard  they  met  with  immediate  and  respect- 
ful attention — an  attention  due  in  part,  perhap::.,  to  the 
magnitude  of  the  loss,  for  bonds  to  a  very  considerable 
amount  were  in  question,  but  largely  also,  no  doubt,  to 
that  unobtrusive  visiting-card  which  announced  the  younger 
and  more  retiring  of  the  two  complainants  as  "  Sir  Paul 
Gascoyne,  Bart."  The  law,  to  be  sure,  as  we  all  know,  is 
no  respecter  of  persons;  but  hardly  anyone  would  find  that 
out  in  modern  England  from  the  way  it  is  administered. 

Before  the  end  of  the  afternoon  they  had  gone  with  a 
detective  round  Capel  Court  and  the  stockbroking  quarter 
generally,  and  had  succeeded  in  discovering  in  a  single 
unimportant  case  v '  at  disposition  had  been  made  of  one  of 
the  missing  securities.  By  a  miracle  of  skill,  the  detective 
had  slowly  tracked  down  a  small  bond  for  ;^2oo  to  a  dark 
young  man,  close-shaven  and  mufiRed,  witli  long,  lank  hair 
too  light  for  his  complexion,  who  seemed  thoroughly  well 
up  in  the  ways  of  the  City,  and  who  gave  his  name  as  John 
Howard  Lewis.  Mr.  Lewis  had  so  evidently  understood 
hi'3  business,  and  had  offered  his  bond  for  sale  with  such 
frankness  and  openness,  that  nobody  at  the  broker's  had  for 
a  moment  dreamt  of  suspecting  or  questioning  him.  He 
had  preferred  to  be  paid  by  ch  ck  to  bearer — wanting,  as 
he  said,  the  money  for  an  immediate  purpose  ;  and  this 
check  was  duly  returned  as  cashed  the  same  day  at  the 


\ 


0/V    THE    TA'.ICA'   n/-     TirE   KOIiHER. 


^n 


London  Joint  Stock  Bank  in  ^^rince's  Street,  by  Mr.  Lewis 
in  person.  It  hadn't  passed  through  anybody's  account, 
and  payment  had  been  taken  in  Bank  of  England  tens  and 
twenties,  the  numbers  of  which  were  of  course  duly  noted. 
As  a  matte/  of  fact,  however,  this  latter  precaution  was  of 
very  little  Ui;e,  for  every  one  of  the  notes  had  been  changed 
later  in  the  d.iy  (though  Mr.  Solomons  didn't  find  that  fact 
out  till  somewhat  after)  into  Bank  of  France  notes  and 
American  gceenbacks,  which  were  converted  back  still 
more  recently  into  English  currency.  So  that  almost  all 
trace  of  the  thief  in  this  way  was  lost.  Mr.  Solomons  had 
no  clew  by  which  he  could  find  him. 

"The  oddest  part  of  it  all,"  Mr.  Solomons  remarked  to 
the  detective  as  they  traveled  back  by  Metropolitan  to- 
gether to  Scotland  Yard,  "  is  that  this  bond  was  offered  for 
sale  on  Friday  morning  !" 

"  It  was,"  the  detective  answered  with  cautious  reserve. 
"  Well,  then,  what  of  that,  sir  ? " 

"Why,  then,"  Mr.  Solomons  went  on,  profoundly  puzzled, 
"the  lot  must  have  been  stolen  on  Thursday  night:  for 
my  nephew  and  I  saw  them  all  quite  safe  in  their  place  on 
Thursday." 

"  They  must,"  the  detective  answered  with  dry  acquies- 
cence.    He  was  forming  his  conclusions. 

Mr.  Solomons  moaned  and  clasped  his  hands  hard  be- 
tween his  knees. 

"If  we  catch  the  rogue,"  he  murmured,  "he'll  have  four- 
teen years  for  it." 

"  Undoubtedly,"  the  detective  answered,  and  ruminated 
to  himself ;  a  clew  was  working  in  his  professional  brain. 
The  bonds  had  been  abstracted  between  Mr,  Lionel's  visit 
on  Thursday  afternoon  and  Friday  morning.  That  nar- 
rowed the  inquiry  to  very  restricted  limits,  indeed:  so  Sher- 
rard,  the  detective,  observed  to  himself  inwardly. 


i^ 


'tii 


A  ; 


i           1 
! 

U'              f 

334 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


CHAPTER   XXXIX. 


HUNTKD    nOWN. 


That  night  Mr.  Solomons  slept  at  Paul's  lodgings. 

About  seven  in  the  morning,  before  either  of  them  was 
up,  the  detective  came  once  more,  all  radiant  in  the  face, 
with  important  tidings.  He  asked  to  see  Sir  Paul  Gascoyne. 
As  soon  as  Sir  Paul  came  out  into  the  little  study  and  sit- 
ting room  to  meet  him  Mr.  Sherrard  jerked  his  head  mysteri- 
ously toward  the  door  of  Mr.  Solomons'  bedroom,  and 
observed  in  a  voice  full  of  confidential  reserve,  *'  I  didn't 
want  too  much  to  upset  the  old  gentleman." 

"  Have  you  got  a  clew  ? "  Paul  asked,  with  profound 
interest. 

And  the  detective  answered  with  the  same  mysterious  air, 
**  Yes,  we've  got  a  clew.  A  clew  that  I  think'll  surprise 
him  a  little.  But  we'll  have  to  travel  down  to  Cornwall,  him 
and  me,  as  quick  as  we  can  travel,  before  we  can  be  sure 
of  it." 

"  To  Cornwall ! "  Paul  repeated,  astonished.  '*  You  don't 
mean  to  say  the  thief's  gone  down  to  Cornwall,  of  all  places 
in  England  ?  " 

For  Nea  lived  in  Cornwall,  and  hallowed  it  by  her  pre- 
sence. To  think  that  a  man  who  stole  bonds  and  scrip 
should  have  the  face  to  take  them  to  the  country  thus 
sanctified  by  Nea  ! 

"  Well,  no,"  the  detective  answered,  pointing  with  his 
thumb  and  his  head  once  more  in  a  most  significant  fashion 
toward  the  room  where  Mr.  Solomons  was  still  in  uncon- 
scious enjoyment  of  his  first  slumber  for  the  night ;  for  he 
had  lain  awake,  tossing  and  turning,  full  of  his  loss,  till  five 
in  the  morning,    <'  He  aint  exactly  ^on^  there  ;  but  we've 


HUNTRD  DOWr^. 


335 


got  to  go  there  ourselves  to  follow  him.  Tlie  fact  of  it  is, 
I've  come  upon  a  trace.  We  were  working;  all  eveninj^  at 
it,  our  men  from  the  yard,  for  we  thouj^ht  from  his  taking 
it  all  in  a  check  to  bearer  he  was  likely  to  clear  out  as  fast 
as  he  could  clear  ;  and  we've  tried  to  find  where  he  was 
likely  to  clear  out  for," 

"  And  what  have  you  discovered  ?  "  Paul  asked,  breath- 
less. 

"  Well,  we  tracked  our  man  from  the  brokers',  you 
see,  to  a  money-changer's  in  the  Strand,"  the  detective 
responded,  still  very  confidentially.  "  It  was  lucky  the  old 
gen*'iman  got  wind  of  it  all  so  soon,  or  we  mightn't  have 
been  able  to  track  him  so  easily.  After  a  month  or  two,  of 
course,  the  scent  mig;  tn't  lie.  But  being  as  it  was  only  last 
Friday  it  happened,  the  track  was  pretty  fresh.  And  we 
found  out  at  the  changer's  he'd  offered  two  hundred  pounds 
in  Bank  of  England  twenties  for  French  notes  of  a  thousand 
francs.  That  was  all  right  and  straightforward  to  be  sure. 
But  here's  where  the  funny  part  of  the  thing  comes  in. 
From  the  changer's  in  the  Strand,  he  went  straight  down  to 
Charing  Cross  Station,  and  at  the  little  office  there,  by  where 
the  cabs  drive  out,  he  changed  back  the  French  thousands, 
d'ye  see,  for  Bank  of  England  tens  again." 

And  the  detective  closed  his  left  eye  slowly  and  reflec- 
tively. 

"  Just  to  confuse  the  trace,  I  suppose,"  Paul  put  in,  by 
way  of  eliciting  further  communication. 

"  That's  it,  sir,"  the  detective  went  on.  "  You're  on  it 
like  a  bird.  He  wanted  to  get  a  hold  of  notes  that  couldn't 
be  tracked.  But  all  the  same  we've  tracked  *em.  It  was 
sharp  work  to  do  it,  all  in  one  night,  but  still  we  tracked 
'em.  We'd  got  to  do  it  at  once,  for  fear  the  fellow  should 
get  clean  away  ;  so  it  put  us  on  our  mettle.  Well,  we've 
trackecj  'en>  at  last,     We  find  eight  of  |Jiem  notes,  l)£^l3n(?§ 


li    t 


I 


«i 


?i 


8! 


II 


II 


336 


THE    SCM  I.  VWAC. 


of  passage-money,  was  paid  in  on  Monday  at  the  Royal 
Mail  Steam  Company's  office  in  tlie  City." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  so!"  Paul  exclaimed,  much 
interested.     **  Hy  whom,  and  to  where,  llien  ?  " 

*'  By  a  dark  young  gentleman,  same  lu-ight  and  build  as 
Mr.  John  Howard  Lewis,  and  about  the  same  description 
as  to  face  and  features,  but  blacker  in  the  hair,  and  curlier. 
by  what  they  tell  us.  And  this  gentleman  had  a  mustache 
when  he  took  the  tickets  first  on  'I'uesday  week  ;  but  the 
mustache  was  shaved  off  when  he  paid  the  balance  of  the 
passage-money  on  Monday.  It  was  twelve  at  night  when 
we  hunted  up  the  clerk  who  arranged  the  passage,  at  his 
lodgings  at  Clapham  ;  but  he  remembered  it  distinctly, 
because  at  first  he  didn't  recognize  the  gentleman  owing  to 
the  change  in  his  personal  appearance  ;  and  then,  later,  he 
recollected  it  was  the  same  face,  but  close-shaven  since  he 
called  first  time  about  the  berths :  so  that  pretty  well 
fixes  it." 

**  But  he  paid  eighty  pounds,"  Paul  said,  unsuspecting 
even  so,  "  if  he  got  rid  of  e.^ht  of  them.  Where  on  earth 
was  he  going  to,  with  a  passage  money  like  that  then  ? " 

*'Well,  it  wasn't  all  for  himself,"  the  detective  answered 
drily,  still  eyeing  him  close.  "It  generally  aint.  We 
count  upon  that,  almost.  There's  mostly  a  woman  at  the 
bottom  of  all  these  'ere  embezzlement  or  robbery  cases. 
The  gentleman  gave  the  name  of  Burton,  instead  of  Lewis, 
at  the  Royal  Mail  Company's  offices,  and  he  took  two 
berths  for  himself  and  Mrs.  Percy  Maybank  Burton.  When 
a  gentleman's  got  two  names  at  once,  there's  usually  some- 
thing or  other  to  inquire  in"to  about  him.  Often  enough 
he's  got  a  third,  too.  Anyhow,  the  eighty  pounds  he  paid 
was  for  balance  of  passage-money  for  himself  and  lady." 

*'  Where  to  ?  "  Paul  asked  once  more. 

"  To  Buenos  Ayres,"  the  detective  answered  with  pare- 


HUXTFJ)  DOWN. 


v:i 


onabic  pride.  "  And  I  ihonght  I'd  better  tf  II  you  first,  so 
as  not  to  make  it  too  great  a  ^:hock,  don't  you  i>ec,  for  the 
poor  old  gentleman," 

"  Too  great  a  shock  I  "  Paul  repeated,  bowiUlereil. 

"  Well,  yes.  He  mightn't  like  it,  you  know.  It  might 
sort  of  upset  him." 

**  To  know  you've  got  a  clew  ?  "  Paul  exclaimed,  much 
puzzled. 

"  Well,  not  exactly  that,"  the  iletectivt;  answered,  gazing 
at  him  with  a  sort  of  gentle  and  pitying  wonder.  "  Hut  to 
hear — that  the  person  has  gone  off  with  a  lady." 

"  I  don't  quite  see  why,"  Paul  replied  vaguely. 

The  detective  seemed  amused. 

*'  Oh,  well,  if  you  don't  see  it,  perhaps  ///•  won't  see  it 
either,"  he  went  on,  smiling.  "  Of  course,  it  aint  no  busi- 
ness of  mine  to  object.  I'm  a  public  officer,  and  I've  only 
got  to  do  my  duty.  I'm  going  down  to  Cornwall  to  try  and 
arrest  my  man,  but  I  thought,  perhaps,  you  or  the  old 
gentleman  might  like  to  come  down  and  help  me  to  identify 
him." 

*•  To  identify  him  !  "  Paul  echoed. 

"Well,  to  secure  him,  anyhow,"  the  detective  answered 
cautiously.  "  You  see,  I've  got  out  a  warrant  for  his  appre- 
hension, of  course — in  different  aliases  ;  and  we  may  as 
well  have  all  the  information  we  can,  so  as  to  make  quite 
sure  beforehand  of  our  capture.  But  we  must  go  by  the 
9.40  from  Paddington  anyhow." 

"  Where  to  ?  "  Paul  inquired,  more  mystified  than  ever. 

*'  To  Redruth  and  Heiston,"  the  detective  replied,  com- 
ing down  to  business.  *'  From  there  we'll  have  to  post  to 
the  Lizard  and  try  to  intercept  him." 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  Paul  suid,  "you  want  to  stop  the  steamer  ?" 

The  detective  nodded. 

"  That's  it,"  he  assented.     "  He's  aboard  the  Dom  Pedro 


\ 


338 


THE   SCAI l.YWAG. 


from  Southampton  for  Mrazil  and  Argentine  ports.  She 
don't  call  for  malls,  unfortunately,  at  Falmouth  ;  but  she 
may  be  caught  off  the  Mzard  still,  if  we  make  haste  to  stop 
her.  If  not,  we  shall  tclrgi.iph  on  to  Kio  and  HuenoN 
Ayres,  and  an  ot'ticer'il  go  out  by  Lisbon,  on  the  offchaiK  c 
to  catch  him  under  I'iXtradition  'I'reaty." 

"  You  settled  all  that  to-night  ?  "  Paul  asked,  amazed  at 
this  promptitude. 

•*  Yes  ;  we  settled  all  that  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morn- 
ing. It's  a  big  affair,  you  see,  and  that  put  us  on  our 
mettle,  and  I've  come  to  know  if  either  of  you  want  to  go 
down  to  the  Lizard  along  of  me." 

*'  For  whom  is  the  warrant  ?  " 

The  detective  looked  hard  at  him. 

"  For  Percy  Maybank  Burton,"  he  answered  with  one  eye 
closed.  •*  You  see,  that's  the  only  certain  name  we've  got  to 
go  upon,  though  there's  an  alias  to  the  warrant — alias  John 
Howard  Lewis,  and  others.  He  gave  his  name  as  Burton 
to  the  company,  of  course,  and  he's  Burton  aboard.  We 
didn't  get  none  for  the  apprehension  of  the  woman.  She 
aint  identified  yet ;  but  if  the  young  chap  comes  off,  of 
course  she'll  follow  him." 

"  Of  course,"  Paul  answered,  without  much  knowing  why. 
F'or  he  had  no  reason  on  earth  for  connecting  Mme.  Ceriolo 
directly  or  indirectly  with  the  unknown  criminal.  If  he 
had,  perhaps  he  might  have  spoken  with  less  of  certainty. 

"What's  up?"  Mr.  Solomons  called  out  from  the  pass- 
age putting  his  head  out  of  the  door  at  sound  of  the  detec- 
tive's voice. 

The  officer,  in  carefully  guarded  terms,  explained  to  him 
in  full  the  existing  state  of  affairs. 

Mr.  Solomons  didn't  take  long  in  making  up  his  mind. 
**  I'll  go  ! "  he  said  briefly.  "  I'll  catch  the  scoundrel  if  it's 
the  last  thing  in  this  world  I  ever  do,    The  rascal,  to  try  to 


si 
t( 
at 


HUNTi-.D  DOirjsr. 


339 


i;   n 


rob  Leo  and  mc  like  that.  lie  shall  have  fourteen  years  for 
it,  if  there's  law  in  Kngland.  Hard  labor,  penal  servitndc. 
Only  I  ain't  fit  to  go  down  there  alone.  If  I  catch  him  it'll 
make  mc  so  angry  to  see  him  I  shall  have  a  bad  turn  with 
my  heart  :  I  know  I  shall  to  a  certainly.  Hut  no  matter, 
I'll  go.     I  only  wish  Leo  was  in  Kngland  to  go  with  me." 

"  Well,  he  aint,"  Mr.  Sherrard  answered  in  the  same  short 
sharp  tone  in  which  he  had  spoken  before  ;  "so  if  you  mean 
to  come  you  must  make  up  your  mind  to  come  as  you  are, 
and  get  ready  instanter." 

But  if  Mr.  Solomons  had  "come  as  he  was"  the  authori- 
ties of  the  Great  Western  Railway  would  have  been  some- 
what surprised  at  the  apparition  of  a  gentleman  at  I'adding- 
ton  Station  in  slippers  and  nightshirt. 

Paul  considered  a  moment  and  looked  at  the  old  man. 
Mr.  Solomons  was  undoubtedly  a  hale  and  hearty  person 
in  most  respects  ;  but  his  heart  was  distinctly  unfit  for  the 
sort  of  strain  that  was  now  being  put  upon  it.  Paul  had 
noticed  the  day  before  how  the  arteries  in  his  forehead  had 
bounded  with  excitement,  and  then  how  the  veins  had 
swelled  with  congested  blood  as  the  fit  passed  over.  If  he 
went  down  to  the  Lizard  alone  with  the  detective,  and  put 
himself  into  a  fume  trying  to  catch  the  robber  of  his  bonds. 
Paul  hardly  liked  to  answer  for  the  possible  consequences. 
And  strange  as  it  may  sound  to  say  so,  the  young  man  had 
a  curious  half- filial  sentiment  lurking  somewhere  in  his 
heart  toward  the  old  Hillborough  money-lender.  He  had 
never  ceased  to  feel  that  it  was  Mr.  Solomons  who  had 
made  him  what  he  was.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  Mr.  Solomons 
he  might  still  have  been  lounging  about  a  stable  in  Hill- 
borough,  instead  of  writing  racy  and  allusive  middles  for 
the  Monday  Remembrancer.  He  hesitated  for  an  instant  to 
press  himself  upon  his  old  friend — the  third-class  fare  to 
Cornwall  and  back  mounts  up,  I  can  tell  you — but  in  the  end 


i 


i40 


I  lit.   SlALLYWAG, 


his  good-nature  and  gratitude  ronqucrcd.  "  If  you  rare 
for  my  company  I'll  gladly  go  with  you,  Mr.  Solomons,"  he 
suggested  timidly. 

Mr.  Solomons  wrung  his  young  friend's  hand  with  affcc^ 
tionatc  regard.  ♦•That's  very  kind  of  you.  Sir  Paul,"  lu: 
Baid  ;  ''that's  very,  very  kind  of  you.  I  appreciate  it  th.it 
a  gentleman  in  your  position — yes,  yes,  I  know  my  place," 
for  Paul  had  made  a  little  deprecatory  gesture — "should  be 
so  good  as  to  desert  his  own  work  and  go  with  me.  Hut  if 
you  go  you  must  let  inc  |>ay  all  expenses,  for  i.is  is  my 
business;  and  if  Leo  had  been  in  England  Leo'd  have  run 
down  with  me." 

"Well,  make  haste,"  the  detective  said  drily.  lie  had  a 
singularly  reticent  manner,  that  detective.  *'  You've  no 
time  to  lose,  gentlemen.  Get  your  things  together  and  put 
'em  into  a  hansom,  and  we'll  drive  off  at  once  to  Paf!dington 
together." 


red 


CHAPTER  XL. 


"CORNWAl,!,,    TO    WIT," 

A  LI,  the  way  down  to  Redruth  and  Helston,  Paul  noticed 
vaguely  that  both  his  fellow-travelers  were  silent  and  pre- 
occupied. Mr.  Solomons,  when  he  spoke  at  all,  spoke  for 
the  most  part  of  Lionel,  and  of  this  wicked  attempt  to  de- 
prive him  of  his  patrimony.  More  than  once  he  took  a 
large  folded  paper  out  of  his  pocket,  of  very  legal  aspect, 
bearing  on  its  face,  in  most  lawyer-like  writing,  the  en- 
grossed legend,  "Will  of  Judah  P.  Solomons,  Gentleman." 
This  interesting  document  he  opened  and  showed  in  part 
to  Paul.  It  was  a  cheerful  and  rather  l6Yigthy  performance 
of  its  own  kind,  marked  by  the  usual  legal  contempt  for 
literary  style,  and  the  common  legal  love  for  most  pleonastic 


•  ('OAWiri/j.,  TO  ir/r." 


34 1 


reduiulancy  ;  everything  was  described  in  it  under  at  least 
three  alternative  nouns,  as  "all  that  house,  niessuay^e,  or 
tenement  ";  and  everybody  was  mentioned  by  every  one  of 
his  names,  titles  and  places  of  residence,  whenever  h(!  was 
referred  to,  with  no  slops  to  speak  ol,  but  with  u  j;raceful 
sprinkling  of  that  precious  word  *' afore^aul  "  as  a  substi- 
tute in  full  for  all  punctuation.  Nevercheless,  it  set  forth 
in  sufficiently  succinct  terms  that  the  lestalor,  being  then  of 
sound  mind  and  in  possession  of  all  his  mtellectual  facul- 
ties as  fidly  as  at  any  period  of  life,  did  give  and  devise  to 
liis  nephew,  Lionel  Solomons,  gentleman,  the  whole  of  his 
estate,  real  or  personal,  in  certain  specified  ways  and  man- 
ners and  for  his  own  sole  use  and  benefit.  'I'iie  will  further 
proviced  that  in  case  the  said  Lionel  Solomons,  gentleman, 
should  predecease  the  testator,  then  and  in  that  case  testa- 
tor gave  and  devised  all  his  estate  aforesaid,  real  or  per- 
sonal, in  trust  to  the  Jewish  Hoard  of  (iuardiansof  London, 
to  be  by  them  applied  to  such  ends  and  purposes,  in  con- 
nection with  the  welfare  of  the  Hebrew  population  of  the 
Metropolitan  Postal  District,  as  might  to  theni  seem  good 
in  the  exercise  of  their  wise  and  sole  discretion. 

"  It  was  every  penny  Leo's,  you  see,"  Mr.  Solomons  re- 
peated many  times  over  with  profound  emotion  ;  **  every 
penny  Leo's.  All  my  life's  savings  were  made  for  Leo. 
And  to  think  tliat  rascal  should  have  tried  to  deprive  him 
of  it  !  Fourteen  years  shall  he  have,  if  there's  law  in  Eng- 
land, Sir  Paul.  Fourteen  years,  with  hard  labor,  too,  if 
there's  law  in  England. 

As  for  Sherrard  the  detective,  that  moody  man,  he  smiled 
grimly  to  himself  every  time  Mr.  Solomons  made  these  tes- 
tamentary confidences  to  his  young  friend  ;  and  once  he 
ventured  to  remark,  with  a  faintly  significant  air,  that  that 
would  be  a  confounded  fine  haul  of  its  sort  for  the  Jewish 
Board  of  Guardians,  if  ever  they  came  in  for  it. 


li    .1 


!■€ 


342 


THE  SCALLYWAG. 


i» 


•'  But  they  won't,"  Mr.  Solomons  answered  warmly. 
"  They'll  never  come  in  for  it.  I've  only  put  it  there  out 
of  a  constitutional  habit  of  providing  beforehand  for  any 
contingency.  My  heart  aint  what  it  used  to  be.  Any 
sudden  shock  now  'ud  bring  it  up  short  like  a  horse  against 
a  hedge  he  can't  take.  I  just  added  that  reminder  to  the 
IJoard  of  Guardians  to  show  1  never  turned  my  back  upon 
my  own  people.  I'm  not  one  of  those  Jews  afraid  and 
ashamed  to  be  known  for  Jews.  A  Christian  I  may  be  ;  a 
mail  can't  be  blamed  for  changing  his  religious  convictions 
— on  sufficient  grounds — but  a  Hebrew  1  was  born  and  a 
Hebrew  I'll  remani  to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  I  won't 
ever  turn  my  back  upon  my  own  kith  and  kindred. 

"  There's  some  as  does,"  the  detective  remarked  enigma- 
tically, and  relapsed  once  more  into  the  corner  cushion. 

It's  a  long  way  from  Paddington  to  Helston  ;  but  the 
weariest  day  comes  to  an  end  at  last ;  and  in  time  they 
reached  the  distant  Cornish  borough.  It  was  late  at  night 
when  they  disembarked  on  the  platform,  but  no  time  was 
to  be  lost  ;  if  they  wanted  to  stop  the  Dom  Pedro  as  she 
passed  the  Lizard  Light,  they  must  drive  across  at  once  to 
the  end  of  the  promontory,  to  arrange  signals.  So  they 
chartered  a  carriage  without  delay  at  Helston  station  and 
set  out  forthwith  on  their  journey  across  the  long  dark 
moor  in  solemn  silence.  They  were  in  no  mood  for  talk- 
ing, indeed.  The  day  in  the  train  had  tired  them  all,  and 
now  they  must  snatch  what  sleep  they  might,  against  to- 
morrow's work,  in  the  jolting  carriage. 

The  drive  across  the  tableland  of  the  Lizard  is  always, 
even  by  day,  a  wild  and  lonely  one,  but  on  this  particular 
night  it  was  wilder,  loneliei,  and  darker  than  ever.  More 
than  once  the  driver  pulled  up  his  horses  in  the  middle  of 
the  road  to  consider  his  way,  and  more  than  once  he  got 
down  and  walked  some  yards  ahead  to  see  whether  by  any 


"CORNWALL,  TO    WlTr 


343 


^ 


chance  he  had  missed  some  familiar  landmark.  On  each 
such  occasion,  Mr.  Solomons'  fretfulness  and  anxiety  visibly 
increased.  At  last  he  conld  stand  these  frc(jueiit  inter- 
ruptions to  the  continuity  of  the  journev  no  longer.  He 
put  his  head  out  of  the  window  and  expt/Stulated  warmly. 

"What  are  you  waiting  like  this  for,  man?"  he  cried  in 
an  angry  tone.  "  Don't  you  know  your  way  ?  1  declare 
it's  too  bad.  If  you  couldn't  find  the  road  from  Helston 
to  the  Lizard,  you  oughtn't  to  have  taken  us.  There's 
thousands  at  stake — thousands  of  pounds  worth  of  bonds 
that  rogue  has  stolen  ;  and  if  we're  not  at  the  Lizard  in 
time  to  catch  him,  he  may  get  cl'jan  off  with  them  to  South 
America." 

The  man  look  d  back  at  his  fare  with  a  half-contemptu- 
ous glance.  '*  That's  the  way  of  all  you  London  people," 
he  answered  gruffly  with  the  stolid  Cornish  moroseness. 
•'  Always  a  fault-finding.  And  yet  there's  fog  enough, 
they  tells  me,  too,  in  London  !  " 

"Fog!"  Mr.  Solomons  ejaculated,  catching  hastily  at 
his  meaning  with  the  quickened  perception  that  comes  at 
any  great  criticil  moment  of  life. 

"Aye,  fog,"  the  man  answered.  "  Lizard  fog,  they  calls 
it.  Fog  that  thick  you  can't  hardly  see  your  hand  before 
you.  It's  bad  enough  driving  over  Helston  moor  dark  nights 
any  time  ;  but  with  fog  like  this,  it's  a  toss-up  if  ever  we 
get  at  all  to  Lizard  Town." 

Mr.  Solomons  gazed  out  blankly  into  the  black  night. 
He  saw  it  at  a  glance.  It  was  all  too  true.  A  finger-post 
stood  by  the  roadside  opposite,  but  even  with  the  light 
from  the  carriage-lamp  falling  full  upon  it,  he  could  hardly 
make  out  its  shape,  far  less  its  lettering,  through  the  dim, 
misty  shroud  that  intervened  between  him  and  the  road- 
side. He  flung  himself  back  on  the  cushions  with  a  groan 
of  despair.     "  If  we  go  on  at  this  snail's  pace,"  he  cried  in 


%-\ 


344 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


the  bitterness  of  his  heart,  *'  we  shall  never  reach  tiiere  in 
time  to  stop  her.  That  thief'U  get  olt"  clear  with  the  bonds 
to  South  America,  and  Leo'll  be  ruined  !  " 

The  driver  laughed  again  in  the  old  man's  face — the 
hard,  dry,  sardonic  Cornish  laugh.  "  That's  the  way  of  you 
London  people,"  he  repeated  once  more,  with  the  critical 
frankness  and  openness  of  his  race.  **  Thinks  you  knows 
everything,  and  aint  got  no  coinmon  gumtion  about  any- 
thing anyhow  !  Why,  who  supposes  the  steamer  can  get 
past  the  Lizard  in  a  fog  like  this,  when  we  can't  so  mui.h  as 
find  our  way  on  the  open  road  across  the  moor  by  dry  land 
from  Helston  ?  What  delays  «^'ll  delay  her.  She'll  anchor 
till  morning,  and  wait  for  it  to  clear,  that's  what  she'll  do, 
unless  she  bears  away  out  to  sea  southward.  She  couldn't 
get  past  the  lighthouse  in  this  sort  of  weather,  could 
she  ? " 

"  No  ;  couldn't  she,  though  ? "  Mr,  Solomons  cried, 
appeased  and  relieved.  *'  You  think  she'll  wail  till  the  fog 
lifts  in  the  morning  ?  " 

"  She's  boand  to,"  the  driver  answered  confidently,  **  if 
she  don't  want  to  go  to  pieces  on  Cadgwith  cliffs  or  on  the 
rocks  over  yonder  by  the  church  at  St.  Ruan's.  There's 
many  of  'em  as  has  gone  to  pieces  in  a  fog  nigh  Cadgwith, 
I  tell  you.  Aye,  and  many  a  ship  as  has  drownded  them 
by  the  dozen,  so  as  the  Cadgwith  men  has  made  fortunes 
time  and  again  out  of  the  salvage,  '  God's  providence  is 
my  inheritance ' — that's  the  motto  of  the  Cadgwith  men 
ever  since  the  days  when  their  fathers  was  wreckers,"  and 
the  driver  laughed  to  himself  a  sullen,  hard  laugh,  indica- 
tive of  thorough  appreciation  of  the  grimly  humorojis  view 
of  Providence  embodied  in  the  local  coastwise  proverb. 

A  strange  shudder  passed  through  Mr.  Solomons'  mass- 
ive  frame.  "  Gone  to  pieces  in  a  fog !  "  he  repeated, 
"You  don't  mean  that !     And  drowned  there,  too  !     Thafd 


CORNWALL,  TO    WIT." 


345 


be  worse  than  all.  He  might  go  down  with  the  bonds  in 
his  case  !  And,  anyhow,  he'd  do  us  out  of  the  fourteen 
years'  imprisonment." 

The  detective  glanced  over  at  Paul  with  a  curious  look 
whose  exact  meaning  Paul  was  at  a  loss  to  determine. 

"  If  he  drowns." 

"  If  he  drowns,"  the  officer  said  in  that  restrained  tone 
he  had  so  often  adopted,  *'  that's  the  hand  of  God.  The 
hand  of  God,  you  see,  cancels  and  overrides  any  magis- 
trate's war''ant." 

Mr.  Solomons  clenched  his  fist  hard  and  looked  blankly 
in  front  of  him. 

"  All  the  same,"  he  said  fiercely,  with  long-smoldering 
indignation,  "  I  don't  want  to  lose  all  my  precious  bonds, 
and  I  don't  want  the  fellow  to  get  off  his  fourteen  years' 
imprisonment." 

"  Whoever  he  may  be  ? "  the  detective  murmured  ten- 
tatively. 

"  Wh'"'*ver  he  may  be,"  Mr.  Solomons  assented,  with 
angry  vehemence.  "  I'm  an  honest  man,  I've  worked 
hard  for  my  money.  Why  should  I  and  my  nephew  be 
beggared  by  anyone  ? " 

They  drove  on  still  through  the  gloom  and  mist,  and 
gradually  felt  thei  way  by  stumbling  steps  across  the  great 
open  moor  toward  the  point  of  the  Lizard.  As  they  drew 
nearer  and  nearer  they  could  hear  the  foghorn  at  the  light- 
house blowing  loudly  now  and  at  frequent  intervals,  and 
bells  were  ringing,  and  strange  noises  along  the  coast 
resounded  hoarsely.  But  all  around  was  black  as  mid- 
night, and  when  at  last  they  reached  the  Lizard  Light- 
house even  the  great  electric  light  itself  hardly  traversed 
the  gloom  or  shed  a  faint  ray  at  the  base  of  its  own  tall 
and  dripping  pedestal.  Mr.  Solomons  hustled  out,  and 
hurriedly  informed  the  coastguardsman  at  the  preventive 


i' 


' 


346 


THE   SCALLYWAG, 


Station  of  the  nature  of  theii  errand.  The  coastguardsman 
shook  his  head  gravely. 

"  Not  to-nighi,"  he  said.  "  This  aint  no  time  for  going 
to  signal  a  ship  to  stop,  no  matter  for  what.  You  can  put 
out  a  boat,  and  try  to  meet  her,  if  you  like  ;  but  it  aint 
likely  in  such  weather  you'd  find  her.  More  chance  to  he 
run  down  yourself  unbeknown  by  her  and  drownded  without 
iier  even  so  much  as  sighting  you." 

•*  She  hasn't  gone  by  yet  ?  "  Mr.  Solomons  asked  eagerly. 

"  No,  she  aint  gone  by  yet,"  the  coastguardsman  replied. 
"  But  she's  expected  every  minute.  She'd  signal  by  gun  or 
foghorn,  I  take  it.  Though  we  aint  heard  nothing  of  her 
so  far,  to  be  sure.  Most  likely  she's  sounded  and  found 
herself  in  shoal  water,  and  so  she's  dropped  anchor  and 
laid  by  till  morning." 

"  Then  the  best  thing  for  us  to  do,"  Paul  suggested,  "  is 
to  turn  in  quietly  at  the  hotel  for  the  night,  and  see  whether 
we  can  find  her  early  to-morrow." 

To  this  plan  of  action,  however,  neither  Mr.  Solomons 
nor  the  detective  would  at  all  consent.  They  insisted  upon 
remaining  about,  within  call  of  the  lighthouse,  on  the 
offchance  of  the  Dom  Pedro  appearing  from  minute  to 
minute.  One  of  them  felt  constrained  by  duty,  the  other 
by  animosity  and  love  of  money,  and  neither  would  yield 
one  jot  or  tittle  of  his  just  pretentions.  So  Paul  was  fain 
to  give  way  to  their  combined  authority  at  last,  and  walk 
up  and  down  in  that  damp  night-fog  by  the  edge  of  the 
cliffs  that  line  round  the  great  promontory. 

So  weird  or  impressive  a  sheet  of  fog  Paul  had  never 
before  in  his  life  seen.  It  was  partly  the  place,  partly  the 
time,  but  partly  also  the  intense  thickness  of  that  dense 
Channel  sea-mist  that  enthralled  his  fancy.  He  descended 
by  himself  slowly,  with  shambling  steps,  along  the  steep  path 
that  leads  down  to  the  water's  edge  at  the  very  point  of  the 


CORNWALL,  TO    WIT." 


347 


Lizard.  To  render  it  more  visible  on  dark  nights,  the  coast- 
guardsmen  have  whitewashed  the  dark  patches  of  rock  by 
the  side,  and  piied  up  along  the  jagged  pinnacles  iiille 
heaps,  or  cairns,  of  white  pebbles.  But  even  so  aided,  it 
was  with  difficulty  that  Paul  could  pick  his  way  along  the 
uncertain  path,  es[)ecially  as  in  parts  it  was  wet  with  spray 
and  slimy  with  the  evaporations  of  salt-water.  'I'here  was 
little  wind,  as  is  usually  the  case  in  foggy  weather,  but  the 
long  Atlantic  ground-swell  nevertheless  made  big  breakers 
on  the  abrupt  rocks  ;  and  the  thunder  of  the  waves,  as  they 
surged  and  burst  below  among  the  unseen  caves  and  dark 
cliffs  of  the  promontory,  had  a  peculiarly  wild  and  solemn 
sound  on  that  black  night,  now  just  merging  toward  the 
first  cold  gray  of  morning.  Paul  was  afraid  to  trust  him- 
self  within  sight  of  the  waves,  not  knowing  how  near  it 
might  be  safe  to  approach  ;  but  he  sat  for  a  while,  alone  in 
the  damp  darkness,  on  the  narrow  ledge  that  seemed  to 
overhang  the  hoarse  chorus  of  breakers  beneath,  and 
listened  with  a  certain  strange  poetic  thrill  to  the  thunder- 
ous music  of  the  Atlantic  below  him. 

And  ever  and  anon,  above  the  noise  of  the  waves,  the 
dull,  droning  voice  of  the  gigantic  foghorn  broke  in  upon 
the  current  of  his  solemn  reverie. 

It  was  a  night  to  pity  men  at  sea  in. 

All  at  once,  as  he  sat,  a  sudden  flash  to  eastward,  hardly 
descried  through  the  fog,  seemed  to  illumine  for  a  second, 
in  a  haze  of  light,  the  mist  around  him.  Next  instant  a 
boom  sounded  loud  in  his  ears — the  boom  of  a  great  gun, 
as  if  fired  point  blank  toward  him. 

How  near  it  might  be,  Paul  could  hardly  guess  ;  but  he 
was  conscious  at  the  same  time  of  the  odor  of  gunpowder 
strong  in  his  nostrils,  while  the  choking  sensation  that 
accompanies  great  closeness  to  a  big  explosion  almost 
unnerved  him,  and  rendered  him  giddy  for  a  moment.    He 


'  'I 


348 


THE   SCALLYWAG, 


rose  in  alarm  at  the  shock,  but  his  feet  failed  him.  He  had 
hardly  the  power  left  to  scale  tiie  rocks  once  more  by  the 
whitewashed  path.  The  concussion  and  the  foul  air  had 
well-nigh  stupefied  him. 

Nevertheless,  as  he  mounted  to  the  lighthouse  again  he 
was  intuitively  aware  of  what  was  happening  close  by. 
Vague  noises  and  feelings  seemed  to  press  the  truth  on  him 
as  if  by  instinct.  A  great  ship  was  in  danger — in  pressing 
danger — on  the  rocks  of  the  Lizard. 

She  had  come  across  the  breakers  unawares  in  the  dense 
fog,  and  had  fired  her  gun  for  a  signal  almost  point-blank 
in  Paul's  very  face.  Had  he  not  by  good  luck  been  turned 
the  other  way,  and  with  his  eyes  half  shut  dreamily,  as  he 
listened  to  the  thunder  of  those  long  Atlantic  waves  and 
the  moaning  of  the  foghorn,  it  would  certainly  have  blinded 
him. 

And  now,  for  all  Paul  knew  to  the  contrary,  the  big  ship 
was  going  to  pieces  on  the  jagged  rocks  beneath  him  there. 

Then,  with  a  second  flash  of  intuition,  it  came  home  to 
him  more  fully,  as  he  recovered  his  senses  from  the  sudden 
shock,  that  this  was  in  all  probability  the  watched-for  Dom 
Fcdro — with  the  thief  on  board  her. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 


A    RESCUE. 


LIMBING  back  hurriedly,  but  cautiously,  to  the  top,  Paul 
groped  his  way  through  the  thick  mist  to  the  lighthouse, 
where  all  was  already  bustle  and  confusion.;  The  first  gray 
light  of  dawn  was  beginning  to  struggle  faintly  through  the 
dense  fog,  and  swirling  wreaths  of  vapor  grew  vaguely 
visible  in  the  direction  of  the  cliff,  whither  people  were  feel- 


A   RESCUE. 


349 


ing  their  way  with  outstrelclicd  arms,  and  much  noise  of 
preparation,  toward  the  cove  and  the  lifeboat. 

"What's  the  tna'ter?"  Paul  asked  one  rough  sailor-look- 
ing man,  whom  he  followed  toward  the  house  where  the 
lifeboat  was  harbored. 

"Matter?  "the  man  answered.  "Why,  salvage,  that's 
what  it  is.  Vessel  gone  ashore  on  the  I^ong  Men  Rocks. 
Steamer,  most  likely.  Brazil  Packet  from  Southampton,  I 
take  it.     Very  good  salvage." 

It's  an  ill  wind  that  blows  nobody  good.  The  descend- 
ant of  the  wreckers  was  thinking  only  of  his  own  inherit- 
ance. 

Paul  hurried  on  in  the  man's  footsteps  till  he  reached  the 
shore.  There,  through  the  vague  gloom,  he  saw  Mr.  Solo- 
mons and  the  detective  already  before  him.  The  sailors 
were  pushing  out  the  lifeboat  over  the  short  shingle-beach, 
and  fishermen  about  were  putting  off  small  rowing-craft  to 
take  their  share  in  the  expected  harvest  of  salvage. 

Before  he  knew  exactly  how  it  was  all  happening,  he  found 
himself  seated  in  one  of  the  small  boats,  with  Mr.  Solomons 
and  the  detective,  while  two  sturdy  fishermen  were  pushing 
them  seaward  through  that  tremendous  surf  that  seemed 
certain  to  swamp  them  with  its  huge  curling  breakers. 

For  a  minute  or  two  the  waves  broke  in  upon  them, 
drenching  them  through  and  through  with  showers  of  spray, 
and  half  filling  the  boat.  Then  the  fisherman,  finding  at 
last  the  long-looked-for  opportunity,  pushed  her  success- 
fully off  on  a  retiring  wave,  and  got  her  safe  out  to  sea 
beyond  the  reach  of  the  great  curving  billows.  Once  well 
afloat,  they  found  the  sea  itself  comparatively  smooth, 
though  heaving  and  tossing  with  a  long  glassy  swell,  whose 
ups  and  downs  were  far  deeper  in  their  way  than  anything 
that  Paul  had  ever  before  experienced.  The  boatmen 
rowed  on  in  the  wake  of  the  lifeboat,  through  the  fog  and 


/I 


350 


THE  SCALLYWAG, 


darkness,  toward  the  sound  of  a  bell  that  rang  with  a  long, 
irregular,  rocking  movement  some  hundred  yards  or  so 
southward  of  them.  Paul  knew  instinctively,  somehow, 
that  no  one  was  ringing  the  bell.  It  was  the  rise  and  fall 
of  the  vessel  as  she  dashed  helplessly  upon  the  rocks  that 
made  that  unearthly  rhythm  ;  she  was  tolling  her  own  knell 
as  the  breakers  broke  her  upon  the  jagged  and  waterworn 
pinnacles  of  the  Lizard. 

As  they  approached  nearer,  little  more  was  visible.  It 
added  to  the  weird  horror  and  awe  of  the  tragedy,  indeed, 
that  nothing  could  be  seen  of  it.  They  knew  only  by 
inference  that  a  great  .ship  was  being  foundered  and  ground 
to  pieces  by  some  invisible  force  within  a  few  yards  of 
them. 

But  the  breakers  themselves  and  the  rocks  were  faintlv 
in  evidence.  Paul  could  make  out  through  the  gloom  some 
sunken  stacks  of  serpentine,  round  whose  crest  the  big 
waves  made  vast  curling  swoops,  and  boiled  and  roared  in 
hideous  whirling  eddies.  The  ship  had  struck  from  the 
opposite  side,  and  the  '  •  tmen  refused  to  row  any  nearer  ; 
indeed,  even  where  they  now  held  her  off,  pressing  with 
all  their  might  on  the  bending  oars,  the  danger  of  ground- 
ing was. very  considerable.  No  boat  could  possibly  live  in 
tliat  wild  surf  upon  those  broken  granite  points.  If  once 
a  wave  should  catch  them  on  its  summit  and  carry  them  on 
to  the  rocks,  all  would  be  up  ;  no  human  aid  could  ever 
avail  to  save  them. 

And  then,  as  they  held  off  there,  keeping  carefully  to  the 
trough  of  the  waves,  and  listening  to  the  cries  and  shouts 
that  came  over  to  them  through  the  fog,  and  hearing  the 
dull  grating  of  the  hull  as  it  scraped  along  the  rock  with 
each  lifting  billow,  a  louder  voice  than  any  rose  distinct 
across  the  waves — the  voice  of  a  ship's  officer  calling  out  in 
wild  tones  of  horror,  "  She's  parting  amidships." 


/t  HESCUE. 


351 


And  so  she  was  !  Next  moment  they  saw  upon  the 
breakers  close  by  great  fragments  of  wreck  and  l)its  of 
floating  board.  There  could  be  no  doubt  the  voice  had 
cried  out  what  was  true.  A  loud  snap  rent  the  air  ;  a 
crash  of  breaking  ;  the  shrieks  and  screams  redoubled  in 
intensity  ;  and  the  boatmen  holding  the  boat  away,  out  of 
reach  of  the  wash,  called  out  aloud,  **  She's  gone  to  pieces 
that  time.  I  heard  her  crack.  Row  round  the  other  way, 
Jim,  and  help  pick  up  the  passengers." 

"  Are  they  drowning?"  Mr.  Solomons  cried,  with  a  face 
of  terrible  relentlessness. 

"They're  drowning,  no  doubt,"  the-  man  answered,  with 
the  stolid,  matter-of-fact  air  of  the  hardened  seaman. 
"  They  can't  many  of  'em  live  in  such  a  sea  as  that  is. 
Anywhere's  else,  they  wouldn't  come  to  much  hurt  this 
calm  weather,  leastways  if  they  could  swim  ;  but  the 
breakers  on  the  Long  Men  Rocks  is  always  terrible.  Why, 
that's  where  the  East  Indiaman  went  to  pieces  twelve  years 
ago  come  Christmas,  don't  you  mind,  Jimmy?" 

**  I  hope  he  won't  drown,"  Mr.  Solomons  cried  savagely, 
"  and  balk  me  of  justice  !  I  hope  he  won't  die  till  I've 
had  my  fourteen  years  out  of  him  !  " 

The  men  were  rowing  their  hardest  now,  and  as  Paul 
could  judge  by  the  sounds  growing  gradually  fainter,  away 
from  the  wreck  and  the  reef  of  rocks,  so  as  to  turn  their 
flank  sideways  and  come  in  upon  them  from  the  open.  For 
nearly  ten  minutes  they  rowed  on  in  silence  as  hard  as  arms 
and  legs  could  row,  Mr.  Solomons  sitting  grim  and  unmoved 
in  the  stern,  while  the  detective  eyed  him  ever  with  a  strange, 
suspicious  side-glance.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  the  fog 
lifted  a  little,  a  very  little,  and  Paul  saw  they  were  skirting 
the  long  ridge  of  rocks,  marked  some  twenty  yards  off  by 
their  white  line  of  breakers. 

Presently  they  saw  other  boats  about — boats  whose  occu- 


k 


35^ 


THE   SCALLYWAC, 


pants  were  engaged  in  peering  into  the  water  in  search  of 
black  objects  bobbing  up  and  down  in  it,  which  the)'  lunged 
at  with  boat-hooks.  And  then,  with  sudden  realization  of 
the  whole  horror  of  tiie  thing,  Paul  recognized  with  a  start 
that  these  were  human  bodies. 

In  another  minute  there  loometl  dimly  ahead  some  dozen 
yards  or  so  off  a  great  dark  mass,  moving  wildly  about 
among  the  wliite  sheets  of  foam  ;  and  Paul  saw  with 
another  terrible  shock  of  awe  that  it  was  half  the  broken 
liull  of  a  huge  ocean-going  steamer.  She  had  parted  amid- 
ships, and  one  half  had  sunk  already  in  the  deeper  water. 
The  other  half,  yet  dashing  wildly  on  the  rocks,  hung 
together  still  upon  the  reef  in  front  of  them. 

At  the  same  moment  a  small,  black  body  went  floating 
past,  like  the  others  ley  had  seen  the  neighboring  boat- 
man lunge  at.  As  it  passed  them  it  rose  spasmodically  to 
the  surface,  and  two  arms  were  flung  up  wildly  into  the  air. 
Through  the  gray  haze  of  morning  Paul  could  recognize 
them  at  once  as  a  woman's  arms — a  woman's  arms,  plump 
and  smooth,  and  white-skinned. 

He  jumped  up,  and  seizing  a  loose  oar  in  his  hand  held 
it  hastily  toward  the  despairing  creature.  But,  even  as  he 
did  so,  the  long  swell  carried  her  away  from  his  sight,  into 
the  deep  mist  beyond,  where  she  disappeared  shrieking. 
They  rowed  with  all  speed  toward  the  spot  where  she  had 
disappeared,  and  there  once  more  came  in  sight  of  the 
woman.  By  this  time  another  boat  had  found  her,  and  was 
pulling  her  in.  With  frantic  struggles  for  life  she  clutched 
the  gunwale,  and  climbed  over,  with  the  aid  of  the  men's 
arms,  on  to  the  boat's  seat.  Then  she  turned  round,  with 
her  wet  dressing-gown  dripping  around  her,  and  in  a  shrill 
voice  of  horror  she  cried  out  to  the  sailors,  "  Go  ashore,  go 
ashore  !     I  shall  perish  of  cold  here  !  " 

For  a  second  the  voice  rang  with  curious  familiarity  in 


!<!' 


A  h'ESCl'K. 


353 


Paul's  ear,  but  he  failed  at  first  to  recojijnizc  the  pale  aiul 
clrag)j;le(l  creature  round  whose  shoulders  oue  of  the  lishcr* 
men  was  wiappiuij,  with  much  care,  his  own  rouj;h  pilot- 
coat.  Next  iuslaut,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  recolleclion. 
the  voice  came  back  to  him  in  all  its  well-known  sharpness, 

"  Why,  it's  Mnie.  (eriolo  !  "  he  cried,  unable  U)  restrain 
ills  surprise  and  wonder. 

Madame  turncil  round  quick  as  li;;htninj;  at  the  sound 
of  her  own  name  and  the  unexpi:cted  recognition.  .She 
remembered  at  once  both  voice  and  face.  She  gave  a 
little  start. 

"What!  Mr.  dascoyne  !  "  she  cried,  forgetting  for  the 
moment  I'anl's  new-made  dignity.  'I'hen  suddenly  her  eyes 
fell  upon  Mr.  Solomons'  stern  and  inllexible  figure  silting 
bolt  upright  on  the  seat  behind.  She  knew  that  face  at 
once,  though  she  had  never  seen  it  before.  It  answered 
exactly  to  the  photograph  Mr.  Lionel  had  shown  h<;r  of  his 
unconscionable  uncle.  She  read  the  whole  history  of  the 
pursuit  at  a  glance.  It  was  old  Cento-Cento,  come  after 
his  dollars. 

In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  she  had  made  up  her  mind 
how  to  behave  under  the  circumstances.  Dupe,  not  accom- 
plice, was  now  her  winning  card.  Still  shivering  with  cold 
and  half  dead  with  terror,  she  yet  stretched  out  her  arms 
toward  the  grim  old  man,  who  sat  there  immovable,  taking 
hardly  any  notice  of  the  drowning  people,  and  called  out 
in  a  voice  full  of  earnest  gratitude  : 

"Why,  it's  him,  to  be  sure!  It's  Leo's  uncle!  He's 
come  out  with  a  boat  to  save  me  and  Leo." 

Like  a  flash  of  lightning  Paul  read  the  whole  truth.  It 
was  Lionel,  then,  who  had  stolen  the  bonds  from  the  safe  ! 
It  was  Lionel  who  was  running  away  on  board  the  Dom 
Pedro!  He  glanced  at  the  detective,  and  caught  his  eye 
inquiringly.     The  detective  nodded  with  that  strange  smile 


354 


THR  SCALLYWAG. 


once  more.  Instinctively  the  full  horror  of  the  situation 
dawned  at  once  upon  hitn.  Mr.  Solomons  was  huntin)( 
down  to  the  very  death  his  own  cherished  nepliew.  And 
the  detective  was  there  to  arrest  Mr.  Lionel. 

He  looked  at  the  old  usurer  in  a  perfect  paroxysm  of 
pity.  How  on  earth  would  he  hear  up  against  this  l)liiuling 
and  staggering  disillusionment  ?  Hut  a  moment's  glance 
showed  him  that  Mr.  Solomons  hadn't  even  yet  grasped 
the  real  situation.  He  hail  merely  leaned  forward  eagerly 
at  the  sound  of  his  nephew's  name,  and  repeated  in  a 
startled  and  puzzled,  but  by  no  means  horrified  tone. 

♦*  Yes,  I'm  Leo's  uncle.  Tell  me,  what  do  you  know  or 
mean  about  Leo  ? " 

Mme.  Ceriolo  hardly  felt  sure  on  the  spur  of  the  moment 
what  to  answer.  It  would  suit  her  book  better  now,  all 
things  considered,  that  Mr.  Lionel  should  go  down,  with 
his  possibly  incriminating  evidence  on  his  soul,  and  that 
she  should  be  able  io pose  as  one  more  victim  of  his  selfish 
criminality.  But  the  position  was  too  strong  for  her.  She 
felt  she  must  at  all  risks  keep  up  appearances.  So  she 
wrapped  the  pilot-coat  around  her  tightly  with  a  shudder  of 
alarm  (it  was  immensely  easy  to  get  up  a  shudder  in  that 
cold  morning  air,  and  with  her  thin  clothes  dripping)  and 
cried  out  in  wild  tones  of  impassioned  agony  : 

"  Yes,  Leo's  on  board.  Leo,  my  Leo  !  On  the  rocks 
there  ahead.     Oh,  save  him,  save  him  !  " 

*'  Leo  on  board  !  "  Mr.  Solomons  answered,  clapping  his 
hand  to  his  forehead  and  letting  his  jaw  drop  slowly  with  a 
stare  of  astonishment.  His  look  was  dazed  and  bewildered 
now.  **  Leo  on  board  !  "  he  repeated,  with  a  terrible  wave 
of  doubt  passing  over  his  face.  Then  his  mouth  closed  up 
again.  "  No,  no,"  he  went  on  fixedly.  "  Leo  couldn't  be 
on  board.  It's  a  lie  !  It's  a  lie  !  He's  gone  to  Switzer- 
land." 


W   HEHCUK. 


355 


Mme.  Ceriolo  gazed  at  him— a  chiUllikc  atul  trustful 
woman. 

♦*  Not  to  Switzerland,"  she  said,  for  she  felt  certain  n'^w 
that  all  must  come  out,  "  he'd  taken  his  ticket  at  the  last 
moment  for  Huenos  Ayrcs." 

At  the  word,  Mr.  Solomons  jumped  up  in  the  l)oat  with 
such  enerjjy  that  he  almost  sent  it  olf  its  balance. 

"  For  Huenos  Ay  res  I  "  he  cried.  *'  Vou  don't  say  that  ! 
Well  done,  well  done — well  done  indeed,  I,co!  He's  the 
very  smartest  chap  in  all  London,  that  boy  !  Don't  you 
sec  it,  Sir  Paul?  Don't  you  sec  his  jijaine  ?  He'd  tracked 
the  bonds  before  us,  and  was  on  the  trail  of  the  robber !" 

♦'At  any  rate,"  Paul  cried,  lookinjj  toward  the  detective 
for  support,  "  our  first  business  now  must  be  to  go  out  and 
save  hini." 

Mr.  Solomons  stood  still  in  the  boat  and  waved  wildly 
forward  with  his  outstretched  hand. 

"To  the  wreck!  To  the  wreck  !"  he  shouted  aloud, 
above  the  noise  of  the  breakers.     "  I  see  him  !     I  see  him  !  " 

And,  in  truth,  Paul,  turning  round  toward  the  hull  that 
still  crashed  and  ground  upon  the  great  granite  millstones, 
saw  a  frantic  figure,  clasping  the  shattered  taffrail  with  one 
clenched  hand,  and  waving  wildly  toward  the  boats  for 
assistance  with  the  other.  The  white  swirls  of  fog  were 
growing  thinner  now,  and  through  the  gap  they  made  he 
could  plainly  perceive  that  the  figure  was  beckoning  them 
with  a  japanned  tin  dispatch-box  of  the  sort  in  which 
bankers  keep  their  clients'  documents. 

"  He  would  go  down  to  fetch  them  I  "  Mme.  Ceriolo 
cried  apologetically  from  the  neighboring  boat.  "  We  were 
all  on  deck  and  might  have  been  saved  together,  but  he 
would  go  down  to  his  cabin  to  fetcii  them." 

Mr.  Solomons  gazed  back  at  her  with  contemptuous  pity. 


If 


/ 


356 


THE   SCALLYWAG, 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

THE    THIEF    IS   ARRESTED. 

They  were  rowing  ahead  r,o\v  with  all  their  thews  and 
muscles,  and  the  breakers,  those  treacherous,  terrible, 
faithless  breakers,  were  carrying  them  forward  with  huge 
lunges  toward  the  broken  hull  as  fast  as  they  could  carry 
them.  The  great  danger  lay  in  the  chance  of  being  dashed 
against  the  broadside,  and  crushed  to  pieces  between  the 
waves  and  the  wreck.  The  one  hope  of  safety  lay  in  being 
able  to  bring  the  boat  within  leaping  distance  or  ropecatch 
for  the  man  on  the  hull,  without  going  quite  so  near  as  to 
be  actually  hurled  against  her  side  in  the  effort. 

Lionel  Solomons  stood  on  the  broken  deck,  frantic  with 
fear,  but  still  clutching  the  taffrail.  A  craven  terror  had 
whitened  his  pasty  face  to  deadly  whiteness.  He  clung 
with  one  hand  to  his  doubtful  support,  as  the  waves 
washed  over  and  over  the  shattered  hull,  and  ground  its 
spars  to  pieces  on  the  stacks  of  rock  behind  him.  Each 
moment  he  disappeared  from  sight  beneath  a  cataract  of 
spray,  then  reappeared  once  more  as  the  wave  sank  back 
ineffectual.  The  whole  hull  swayed  and  pounded  upcn 
the  clattering  rocks.  But  Lionel  Solomons  still  clung  on, 
with  the  wild  tenacious  grip  of  his  race,  to  that  last  chance 
of  safety.  He  held  the  dispatch-box  as  firmly  in  one  hand 
as  he  held  to  the  taffrail  with  the  other.  He  was  clutching 
to  the  last  at  his  life  and  his  money. 

Mr.  Solomons,  who  had  been  the  first  to  see  him,  was 
also  the  one  to  keep  him  clearest  in  view,  and  he  urged 
the  fishermen  forward  through  those  boisterous  waves  with 
his  outstretched  forefinger  turned  ever  toward  the  wretched 
a'^itive. 


THE    THIEF  IS   AN  RESTED. 


357 


**  My  nephew  !  "  he  cried  c"t  to  them.  *'  There  he  is  ! 
That's  he  !  My  nephew  !  My  nephew  !  A  hundred 
pounds  a-piece  to  you,  men,  if  you  save  my  nephew  !  " 

Paul  could  make  him  out  through  the  mist  quite  dis- 
tinctly now,  and  he  half  unconsciously  observed,  even  in 
that  moment  of  peril  and  intense  excitement,  tiiat  the 
reason  why  he  had  failed  to  recognize  Lionel  earlier  was 
because  the  miserable  man  had  shaved  his  upper  lip,  and 
otherwise  superfi  ially  disguised  his  hair  and  features. 

"  Yes,  it's  Leo,  it's  Leo ! "  Mr.  Solomons  cried  con- 
vulsively, clasping  his  hands.  "  He  tracked  the  fellow 
down,  and  followed  him  out  to  sea — at  his  (uvn  peril  ! 
Fourteen  years  !  Why  the  man  ought  to  be  hanged, 
drawn,  and  quartered  !  " 

•'  We'll  never  make  this  arrest,"  the  detective  murmured, 
half  aside  to  Paul.  "  Hold  her  off  there,  you  fishermen  ; 
we  shall  all  be  dashed  to  pieces.  We  shall  drown  our- 
selves if  we  go  near  enough  to  save  him." 

"Now  then,  nearer,  nearer  !"  Mr.  Solomons  cried,  mad 
with  suspense  and  agony,  and  blue  in  the  face  with  the 
horror  of  the  crisis.  "  Let  her  go  with  the  wave  !  Let 
him  jump,  let  him  jump  there  !  Hold  her  off  with  your 
oars  men  ;  don't  be  afraid  !  A  hundred  pounds  a-piece, 
I  tell  you,  if  you  save  my  nephew  !  " 

As  he  spoke,  the  boatmen,  taking  advantage  of  the 
undertow  as  it  rolled  off  the  hull  and  the  reef,  put  the 
boat  as  close  in  as  safety  would  permit  to  the  riddled 
broadside,  and  held  up  a  coil  of  rope  in  act  to  fling  it  to 
the  terrified  fugitive.  Lionel  still  gripped  the  ill-omened 
dispatch-box.  "  Fling  it  away,  man  ;  fling  it  away  !  " 
the  sailors  called  out  impatiently.  "  Catch  at  the  rope 
for  dear  life  as  I  throw  the  coil  at  'ee  !  " 

Lionel  Solomons  gazed  one  instant  at  the  box — the 
precious  box  for  whose  contents  he  had  risked,  and  was 


:\-    ■    I 


^i| 


358 


THE  SCALLYWAG. 


losing  everything.  It  went  against  the  grain  with  him, 
white  and  palsied  coward  that  he  was  that  moment,  to 
relinquish  his  hold  of  it  even  for  one  passing  interval.  But 
life  was  at  stake,  dear  life  itself,  to  which  he  clung  in  his 
craven  dread,  even  more,  if  possible,  than  to  his  illgotten 
money.  Lunging  forward  as  the  wave  brought  the  gieat 
hull  back  again  nearest  to  the  boat,  he  flung  the  case  with 
desperate  aim  into  the  stern,  where  it  fell  clattering  at  Mr, 
Solomons'  feet.  But  the  golden  opportunity  was  now  past 
and  gone.  Before  the  fishermen  could  fling  the  coil,  the 
hull  had  rocked  back  again  with  the  advancing  wave,  and 
it  was  only  by  backing  water  with  all  their  might  on  a  reflu- 
ent side-current  that  the  other  men  could  hold  off  their 
boat  from  being  hurled,  a  helpless  walnut-shell,  against  the 
great  retreating  broadside.  The  wreck  bore  on  upon  the 
rocks,  and  Lionel  Solomons  went  with  it,  now  clinging 
desperately  with  both  hands  to  that  shattered  taffrail. 

"  Try  once  more,"  Mr.  Solomons  shouted,  almost  beside 
himself  with  excitement  and  anguish,  and  livid  blue  from 
chin  to  forehead,  "  A  hundred  pounds — two  hundred 
pounds  each  man,  if  you  save  him  !  Leo,  Leo,  hold  on  to 
it  still — wait  for  the  next  wave  !  We  can  come  alongside 
again  for  you." 

The  billow  rolled  back  and  the  hull  heeled  over,  careen- 
ing in  their  direction.  Once  more  the  boatmen  rowed  hard 
against  the  recoiling  undertow.  For  a  moment,  with 
incredible  struggles,  they  held  her  within  distance  for 
throwing  the  coil. 

"  Catch  it !  catch  it  and  jump  !  "  Paul  cried  at  the  top 
of  his  voice. 

Lionel  Solomons,  coming  forward  a  third  time  with  the 
careening  hull,  held  out  one  despairing  hand  with  a  wild, 
clutching  motion  for  tTie  rope  they  flung  him. 

At  that  instant,  while  they  looked  for  him  to  catch  it  and 


THE    THIEF  IS  ARRESTED. 


359 


leap,  a  sudden  and  terrible  change  came  over  the  miserable 
being's  distorted  features.  For  the  very  first  time  he 
seemed  to  focus  his  sight  deliberately  on  the  people  in  the 
boat.  His  gaze  fell  full  upon  his  uncle's  face.  '1  heir  eyes 
met.  Then  Lionel's  moved  hastily  to  Paul's  and  the  detect- 
ive's. There  was  a -brief  interval  of  doubt.  He  seemed 
to  hesitate.  Next  iustant  the  coil  fell,  unwinding  itself, 
into  the  water  by  his  side,  not  six  inches  short,  and  Lionel 
Solomons'  last  chance  was  gone  ft  rever. 

Instead  of  leaning  for-.vard  and  catching  it,  hv  had  flung 
up  his  arms  wildly  in  the  air  as  the  coil  approached  him, 
and,  shriekimg  out  in  a  voice  that  could  be  heard  above  the 
breakers  and  the  grinding  jar  of  the  hull  upon  the  rocks, 

"  O  God  ! — my  uncle  !  "  had  let  go  his  hold  altogether 
upon  the  unsteady  taffrail. 

His  sin  had  found  him  out.  He  dared  not  face  the  man 
he  had  so  cruelly  robbed  of  a  life's  savings. 

Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  as  they  held  back  ^he  boat  with 
the  full  force  of  six  stalwart  arms,  they  saw  a  great  billow 
burst  over  the  whole  wreck  tumultuously.  As  the  foam 
cleared  away  and  the  water  came  pouring  in  wild  cataracts 
over  her  side,  tiiey  looked  once  more  for  their  nan  upon 
the  clean-swept  deck.  But  they  looked  in  vain.  The  taf- 
frail was  gone,  and  the  skylights  above  the  cabin. 

And  Lionel  Solomons  was  no  longer  visible. 

The  great  wave  had  swept  him  off,  and  was  tossing  and 
pounding  him  now  upon  the  jagged  peaks  of  granite. 

Mr.  Solomons  fell  back  in  his  place  at  the  stern.  His 
color  was  no  longer  blue,  but  deadly  white,  like  Lionel's. 
Some  awful  revulsion  had  taken  place  within  him.  He 
bowed  down  his  face  between  his  hands  like  a  broken- 
hearted man,  and  rocked  himself  to  and  fro  above  his 
knees  convulsively, 

"  And  I  drove  him  to  his  death  !  "  he  cried,  rocking  him- 


360 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


i 


II 


II 

;l  I,. 


i 


self  still  in  unspeakable  remorse  and  horror  and  anguish. 
"  1  drove  him  to  his  death  when  I  meant  to  save  him  !  " 

Seething  inwardly  in  soul,  Paul  knew  the  old  man  had 
found  out  everything  now.  In  that  last  awful  moment, 
when  the  drowning  nephew  shrank,  at  the  final  gasp,  from 
the  uncle  he  had  so  cruelly  and  ungratefully  robbed,  it 
came  in  with  a  burst  upon  Mr.  Solomons'  mind  that  it  was 
Leo  himself  who  had  stolen  the  securities.  It  was  Leo 
he  had  hounded  and  hunted  down  in  the  wreck.  It  was 
Leo  he  had  confronted,  like  an  evil  conscience,  in  that  last 
drowning  agony.  It  was  Leo  for  whom  he  had  demanded 
with  threats  and  curses  fourteen  years'  imprisonment  i 
The  horror  of  it  struck  Mr.  Solomons  mute  and  dazed. 
He  rocked  himself  up  and  down  in  a  speechless  conflict 
of  emotion.  He  could  neither  cry  nor  groan  nor  call  out 
now  ;  he  could  only  gaze,  blankly  and  awfully,  at  the  white 
mist  in  front  of  him. 

Leo  had  robbed  him — Leo,  for  whom  he  had  toiled  and 
slaved  so  long  !  And  he  had  tracked  him  down,  uncon- 
sciously, unwittingly,  till  he  made  himself,  against  his  will, 
Leo's,  executioner  ! 

•'  We  can  do  no  more  good  here,"  the  detective  mur- 
mured in  low  tones  to  Paul.  "  I  felt  sure  it  was  him,  but  I 
didn't  like  to  say  so.  We  may  go  ashore  now.  This  'ere 
arrest  aint  going  to  be  effected." 

"  Row  back  !  "  Paul  said.  "  There's  nobody  else  on  the 
wreck.  If  we  row  ashore  at  once,  we  can  find  out  who's 
saved  and  how  many  are  missing." 

They  rowed  ashore  by  the  same  long  detour  to  avoid  the 
reef,  and  saw  the  little  cove  looming  distinctly  through  the 
cold  morning  mist  to  the  left  before  them.  On  the  stvip  of 
shingle  a  crowd  was  drawn  up,  gathered  together  in  knots 
around  some  dark  unseen  objects.  They  landed  and 
approached,  Mr.  Solomons  still  white  and  almost  rigid  in 


i   ff 


THE    THIEF  IS  ARRESTED. 


361 


the  face,  but  walking  blindly  forward,  as  in  a  dream,  or 
like  some  dazed  and  terrified  dumb  creature  at  bay  in  the 
market  place.  Four  or  five  corpses  lay  huddled  upon  the 
beach  ;  some  others  the  bystanders  were  trying  rudely  to 
revive,  or  were  carrying  between  them,  like  logs,  to  the 
shelter  of  their  cottages. 

A  group  of  dripping  creatures  sat  apart,  wringing  their 
hands,  or  looking  on  with  the  stolid  indifference  of  acute 
hopelessness.  Among  them  was  one  in  a  pilot-coat  whom 
some  of  the  bystanders  were  regarding  with  supreme  pity. 
"  Poor  thing  !  "  one  woman  said  to  Paul  as  they  approached. 
"  She  was  married  a-Gaturday — and  her  husband's  miss- 
ing !  " 

Paul  looked  at  her  with  an  indefinable  sense  of  profound 
distaste  and  loathing.  The  detective,  who  followed  with 
the  dispatch-box  still  held  tight  in  his  hand,  cast  his  eye 
upon  her  hard.  "  I've  got  no  warrant  for  arresting  //^v,"  he 
observed  grimly,  "  but  she'd  ought  to  be  one  of  them." 

Mr.  Solomons  sat  down  upon  the  beach,  quite  motion- 
less. He  gazed  away  vaguely  in  the  direction  of  the 
wreck.  Presently  a  dark  body  appeared  upon  the  crest  of 
a  long  wave  swell  to  seaward.  One  of  the  sailors,  plunging 
boldly  through  the  breakers  upon  a  recoiling  wave,  with  a 
rope  round  his  waist,  struck  out  with  brave  arms  in  the 
direction  of  the  body.  Mr.  Solomons  watched  with 
strangely  passive  interest.  The  sailor  made  straight  for  it, 
and  grasped  it  by  the  hair-  short,  cm'y  hair,  black  and 
clotted  with  the  waves — and  brought  it  back  in  tow  as  his 
companions  pulled  him  by  the  rope  over  the  crest  of  a  big 
breaker.  Mr.  Solomons  sat  still  and  viewed  it  from  afar. 
The  face  was  battered  out  of  all  recognition  and  covered 
with  blood,  but  the  hands  and  dress  were  beyond  mistake. 
Three  or  four  of  the  passengers  gathered  round  It  with  awe- 
struck glances. 


il 


I 


1^    :f 


362 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


"  Hush,  hush,"  they  murmured.  "  Keep  it  from  her  for 
a  while.  It's  poor  Mr.  Burton.  His  uncle's  here,  they  say 
— on  the  beach  somewhere  about.  And  there's  Mrs.  Bur- 
ton, sitting  crying  by  the  coastguard  on  the  shingle  over 
yonder." 

As  the  words  fell  on  his  ears  and  crushed  the  last  grain 
of  hope — that  fatal  alias  telling  him  all  the  terrible  story  in 
full  at  once — Mr.  Solomons  rose  and  staggered  blindly  for- 
ward. Paul  held  his  hand,  for  he  thought  he  would  fall  ; 
but  Mr.  Solomons  walked  erect  and  straight,  though  with 
reeling  footsteps  like  one  crushed  and  paralyzed.  He 
knelt  beside  the  body,  and  bent  over  it  tenderly.  The 
tears  were  in  his  eyes,  but  they  didn't  drop. 

**  O  Leo,  my  boy  ! "  he  cried,  *'  O  Leo,  Leo,  Leo  !  why 
didn't  you  ask  me  for  it  ?  Why  didn't  you  ask  me?  You 
had  but  to  ask,  and  you  knew  it  was  yours  ?  O  Leo,  Leo, 
Leo  !  why  need  you  do  it  like  this  ?  You've  killed  yourself, 
my  boy,  and  you've  broken  my  heart  for  me  !  " 

At  the  words,  Mme.  Ceriolo  rushed  forward  with  a  mag- 
nificent burst  of  theatrical  anguish.  She  flung  herself  upon 
the  body  passionately,  like  a  skilled  actress  that  she  was, 
and  took  the  dead  hand  in  hers  and  kissed  it  twice  over. 
But  Mr.  Solomons  pushed  her  aside  with  unconscious 
dignity. 

"  Not  now,"  he  said  calmly;  "  not  now,  if  you  please. 
He's  mine,  not  yours.  I  would  never  have  left  him.  I  will 
care  for  him  still.     Go  back  to  your  seat,  woman  !  " 

And  he  bent  once  more,  broken-hearted,  over  the  pros- 
trate body. 

Mme.  Ceriolo  slunk  back  aghast,  into  the  circle  of 
spectators.  She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  cried 
aloud  in  her  misery.  But  the  old  man  knelt  there,  long  and 
motionless,  just  gazing  blankly  at  that  battered  corpse,  and 
murmured  to  himself  in  half-inarticulate  tones,  **  Leo,  Leo, 


RELICT  OF    THE   LATE  LIONEL   SOLOAfOXS. 


363 


Leo  !  To  think  I  should  have  killed  you  !  You  had  but 
to  ask,  and  you  knew  it  was  yours,  niy  boy.  Why  didn't 
you  ask  ?    Oh,  why  didn't  you  ask  me  ? " 

CHAPTER  XUII. 


RELICT    OF    THE    LATE    LIONEL    SOLOMONS. 

They  waited  on  at  Lizard  Town  till  after  the  funeral. 
Mr.  Solomons,  in  a  certain  dazed  and  dogged  fashion,  went 
through  with  it  all,  making  his  arrangements  for  a  costly 
Cornish  serpentine  monument  with  a  short  inscription  in 
memory  of  Leo,  to  the  outward  eye  almost  as  if  nothing 
very  much  out  of  the  way  had  happened  ;  but  Paul,  looking 
below  the  surface,  could  easily  see  that  in  his  heart  of  hearts 
the  poor  broken  old  money-lender  was  utterly  crushed  and 
shattered  by  this  terrible  disillusionment.  It  wasn't  merely 
the  loss  of  his  nephew  that  wciglicd  down  his  gray  hairs — 
though  that  in  itself  would  have  gone  far  to  break  him — it 
was  the  shame  and  disgrace  of  his  crime  and  his  ingratitude, 
the  awful  awakening  that  overtook  him  so  suddenly  in  the 
boat  that  morning.  He  could  hardly  even  wish  his  nephew 
alive  again,  knowing  him  now  for  exactly  what  he  was; 
yet  the  way  he  leaned  over  the  coffin  where  that  bruised 
and  battered  face  lay  white  and  still  in  its  still,  white  grave- 
clothes  muttering,  "  Leo,  Leo,"  to  himself  as  he  gazed  on 
it,  was  painfully  pathetic  for  anyone  to  look  upon.  Paul 
knew  that  the  old  man's  life  was  clean  cut  away  from  under 
him.  The  end  for  which  he  had  labored  so  hard  and  so 
sternly  for  so  many  years  was  removed  at  one  swoop  from 
his  path  in  life;  and  the  very  remembrance  of  it  now  was  a 
pang  and  a  humiliation  to  him. 

Paul  observed,  however,  that  in  the  midst  of  this  un- 
speakable  domestic    tragedy,    Mr.   Solomons   seemed    to 


!i 


i 


n 


'i'-'f 


364 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


recline  upon  his  shoulder  for  aid,  and  to  trust  and  confide 
ill  him  with  singular  unreserve,  even  more  fully  than  hereto- 
fore. On  the  very  evening  of  Leo's  funeral,  indeed,  as  he 
sat  alone  in  his  own  room  at  the  Lizard  Motel,  Mr.  Solo- 
mons came  to  him  with  that  white  and  impassive  face  he 
had  preserved  ever  since  the  morning  t-f  the  wreck,  and 
beckoning  to  him  with  his  hand,  said,  in  an  ominous  tone 
of  too  collected  calmness,  "  Come  into  my  room,  Sir  Paul; 
that  woman  is  coming  to  speak  with  me  to  night,  and  I 
want  you  to  be  by  to  hear  whatever  she  may  have  to  tell 
me." 

Paul  rose  in  silence,  much  exercised  in  soul.  He  had 
fears  of  his  own  as  to  how  Mme.  Ceriolo's  story  might 
further  lacerate  the  poor  old  man's  torn  heart ;  but  he  went 
reluctantly.  Mme.  Ceriolo  had  stopped  on  at  the  Liz- 
ard, meanwhile,  partly  because  she  felt  herself  compelled 
in  common  decency  to  wait  where  she  was  till  Leo 
was  buried,  but  partly  also  because  she  wanted  to  know 
how  much,  if  anything,  Leo's  widow  might  still  hope  to 
extract  out  of  old  Cento- Cento's  well-filled  pockets.  She 
had  stood  ostentatiously  that  day  beside  Lionel  Solomons' 
open  grave  with  much  display  of  that  kind  of  grief  betok- 
ened by  copious  use  of  a  neat  pocket-handkerchief  with  a 
coronet  in  the  corner  ;  and  she  was  very  well  satisfied 
when,  in  the  evening,  Mr.  Solomons  sent  a  curiously  worded 
card  to  her  in  her  own  room  : 

"  If  you  will  step  into  my  parlor  for  half  an  hour's  talk, 
about  eight  o'clock,  I  wish  to  speak  with  you." 

The  little  adventuress  came  in  to  the  minute,  with  very 
red  eyes,  and  with  such  an  attempt  at  impromptu  mourning 
as  her  hasty  researches  among  the  Helston  shops  had  al- 
ready allowed  her  to  improvise  for  the  occasion.  Her  get 
up,  unu^r  the  circumstances,   was  strictly   irreproachable. 


I  <■ 


RELICT  OF    THE   LATE   LIOXEL    SOLOMOiVS. 


2>(>S 


She  looked  the  very  picture  of  inconsolable  guci,  not  wholly 
unmixed  with  a  sad  state  of  pecuniary  destitution.  It  dis- 
concerted  her  a  little  when  she  saw  I'aul,  too,  was  to  he  in- 
cluded in  the  family  party — he  knew  too  much  to  be  (|uite 
agreeable  to  her — but  she  (juickly  recovered  her  equanim- 
ity on  that  score  and  appealed  to  "Sir  l*aiil  "  with  simple 
womanly  eloquence  as  an  old  Mentone  friend,  as  the  very 
person  who  had  been  the  means  of  first  introducing  her  to 
her  own  dear  Lionel.  Mr.  Solomons  listened  with  grimly 
impervious  face. 

'•  What  I  want  to  hear,"  he  said  at  last,  fairly  confront- 
ing the  little  woman  with  his  sternly  critical  eye,  "  is,  What 
do  you  know  about  this  dreadful  business  ?  " 

"  What  business  ? "  Mme.  Ceriolo  asked,  with  a  little 
tearful  astonishment. 

Mr.  Solomons  eyed  her  again  even  more  sternly  than 
before. 

"  You  know  very  well  what  business,"  he  retorted  with 
some  scorn.  **  Don't  make  an  old  man  go  over  his  shame 
again,  woman.  By  this  time  all  Cornwall  has  heard  it 
from  the  detective,  no  doubt.  If  you  pretend  not  to  know 
you'll  only  exasperate  me.  Let's  be  plain  with  one  another. 
Your  best  chance  in  this  matter  is  to  be  perfectly  straight- 
forward." 

His  tone  took  Mme.  Ceriolo  completely  by  surprise. 
She  had  never  before  in  her  life  been  placed  in  a  position 
where  her  little  feminine  wiles  and  pretenses  proved  utterly 
useless.  She  gasped  for  breath  for  a  second,  and  stared 
blankly  at  the  stern  old  man,  out  of  whom  this  terrible 
episode  seemed  to  have  driven  forever  all  the  gerunie 
kernel  of  geniality  and  kindness.  Paul  was  truly  sorry  for 
her  mute  embarrassment. 

"  I — I — don't  know  what  you  mean,"  she  answered  at 
last,  leaning  back  in  her  chair  and  bursting  into  real,  irre- 


i 


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366 


TIIF.    SCAI.l.VWAC. 


iiii' 


piessibic,  womanly  tears.  *•  1  thought  you  wanted  to  speak 
to  inc  as  Lionel's  widow." 

Mr.  Solomons  let  her  lean  back  and  cry  till  she  was 
tired.  Meanwhile  he  stood  and  eyed  her  with  undisguised 
grinmess. 

•'  As  soon  as  you're  cap.d)le  of  reasonal)Ie  talk,"  he  said 
at  last,  in  a  cold,  clear  tone,  "  I  have  some  (piestions  to  ask 
you.     Answer  them  plainly  if  you  want  attention." 

Mme.  Ceriolo  stifled  her  sobs  with  an  ellort,  and  dried 
her  eyes.  She  was  really  and  truly  frightened  now.  She 
saw  she  had  made  a  fal.se  step — perhaps  an  irretrievable 
one— or,  rather,  she  saw  that  the  wreck  and  discovery  and 
Lionel's  death  had  so  completely  upset  all  her  well-laid 
plans  for  her  future  in  life  that  retreat  in  any  direction  was 
well-nigh  impossible.  She  was  the  victim  of  contingencies, 
sacrificed  by  fate  on  the  altar  of  the  unforeseen.  She  com- 
posed herself,  however,  with  what  grace  she  might,  and 
answered  bravely,  through  the  ghost  of  a  sob,  but  in  a 
creditably  firm  voice,  that  she  was  quite  prepared  now  to 
consider  any  questions  Mr.  Solomons  might  put  to  her. 

Mr,  Solomons,  sitting  there,  wrecked  and  unmanned  iiim- 
self,  began  once  more  in  a  mood  of  hollow  calmness  : 

"  You  say  you  come  as  Lionel's  widow.  Is  that  true,  in 
the  first  place  ?  Were  you  ever  married  to  him  ?  If  so, 
when,  where,  and  what  evidence  have  you  ?  " 

With  the  conscious  pride  of  the  virtuous  British  matron 
at  last  achieved,  Mme.  Ceriolo  drew  from  her  pocket  an 
official-looking  paper,  which  she  handed  across  at  once  for 
Mr.  Solomons'  inspection. 

"There's  my  marriage-certificate,"  she  said  simply, 
"saved  from  the  wreck."  She  felt  she  was  scoring.  The 
old  man  had  miscalculated  and  misunderstood  her  character. 

Mr.  Solomons  scanned  it  close  and  hard. 

"  This  seems  perfectly  correct,"  he  said  at  last,  in  his 


kKIJCJ'  01-    I  HE  lATI-.   HONK/.   SOJaKMOXS.         ^(*^ 


SO, 

iron 
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cold,  Ktcrn  tone.  "  I  cm  fiiul  no  mistake  in  it.  Nfy  ixior 
boy's  signature,  (irm  and  clear  as  ever.  And  on  Saturday 
lant,  too  !     ()  (lod  !  the  shame  of  it !  " 

Mnw.  (!eri<)lo  ho\v<'d  anil  answere«l  notliinjj. 

Mr.  Solomons  ^a/.od  at  it  and  si);hed  three  times.  Then 
he  looked  lip  oneo  more  with  a  fuMcely  scriitiiii/.iii};  look  al 
the  strange  woman. 

"  Lionel  Solomons,"  he  nmrmured  half  to  himself,  perus- 
ing the  mania^^t;  lin(*s  thioii);!!  his  slowly  lolliu);  tears, 
•*  Lionel  Solomons.  My  poor  hoy's  own  sij;naliire  ;  Lionel 
Solomons.  No  deception  there.  .\ll  plain  and  above- 
board." 

'i'hen  he  raised  his  face,  and  met  Mine.  (!criolf)'s  eyes 
with  sudden  vehement  iiupiiry. 

"  Hut  you  called  yourselves  lUirton  on  i)oard,"  Ik*  con- 
tinued fiercely,  "  Yon  were  Mrs.  Ifurton,  you  know,  to 
your  fellow-passenjjers.  Why  did  you  do  that,  if  you  were 
all  so  innocent  ?  " 

The  unexpectedness  of  the  question  took  madamc's 
breath  away  once  more,  A  second  time  she  broke  down 
and  began  to  cry.  l*aul  looked  across  at  her  with  j^enuinc 
sympathy.  No  youny;  man,  at  least,  can  l)ear  to  see  tears 
in  a  pretty  woman's  eyes,  rijjhtly  or  wrongfully.  Hut  Mr. 
Solomons  felt  no  such  liunKin  weakness.  lie  paused  as 
before,  rhadamantine  in  his  severity,  and  awaited  her 
restoration  to  a  rational  and  collected  frame  of  mind  for 
undergoing  further  cross-examination.  Madame  cried  on 
silently  for  a  moment  or  so,  and  then  dried  her  tears. 

•'You're  very  cruel,"  she  murmured,  sobbing,  ".so  soon 
after  poor  dear  Lionel's  death,  too  !     You're  very  cruel!" 

Mr,  Solomons  waved  his  hand  impatiently  on  one  side, 

**  You  lured  him  to  his  death,"  he  answered  with  grim, 
retributive  sternness,  *'  No  talk  like  that,  if  you  please.  It 
only  aggravates  me,     I  mean  to  do  what  I  think  is  just,  if 


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THE   SCALLYWAG. 


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you'll  answer  my  questions  truly  and  simply.  I  ask  you 
again  :  Why,  if  you  please,  did  you  call  yourself  Burton  ?" 

"  Poor  Leo  told  me  to,"  madame  sobbecT,  quite  non- 
plussed. 

'•  Did  he  explain  his  reasons  ?"  Mr.  Solomons  persisted. 

"  N — not  exactly.  He  said  he  must  go  incognito  to  South 
America.  I  thought  he  might  have  business  reasons  of  his 
own.  I  come  of  a  noble  Tyrolese  family  myself.  I  don't 
understand  business." 

**  Nonsense  ! "  Mr.  Solomons  answered  with  crushing 
promptitude.  "  Don't  talk  like  that.  Sherrard,  my  detect- 
ive, has  got  up  the  case  against  you.  Here  are  his  tele- 
grams from  town,  and,  if  I  chose,  I  could  prosecute  ;  but 
for  Leo's  sake — for  Leo's  memory's  sake — I  prefer  to  leave 
it."  He  faltered  for  a  moment.  "  I  couldn't  have  Leo's 
name  dragged  through  the  mud  in  the  Courts,"  he  went  on, 
with  a  melting  inflection  in  his  stern  voice;  "and  for  his 
sake — for  dead  Leo's  sake — I've  induced  Sherrard  and  the 
Scotland  Yard  people  not  to  proceed  for  the  present  against 
you.  But  that's  all  lies.  You  know  it's  lies.  You're  the 
daughter  of  an  Italian  organ-grinder,  born  in  a  court  off 
Saffron  Lane,  and  your  mother  was  a  ballet-girl  at  Drury 
Lane  Theater." 

Madame  bowed  her  head  and. wept  silently  once  more. 

"  You — you're  a  cruel,  hard  man,"  she  murmured  half 
inaudibly. 

But  Mr.  Solomons  had  screwed  his  righteous  indignation 
up  to  sticking-point  now,  and  was  not  to  be  put  down  by 
such  feminine  blandishments.  *'  You're  a  grown  woman, 
too,"  he  went  on,  staring  hard  in  her  face  and  flinging  out 
his  words  at  her  with  angry  precision.  **  You're  a  woman 
of  the  world,  and  you're  forty,  if  you're  a  day — though 
you've  falsely  put  yourself  down  in  the  marriage  lines  as 
twenty-eight — and  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  you're 


RELICT  OF    THE   LATE  LIONEL    SOLOMOXS. 


3^9 


not  so  innocent  and  trustful  and  confiding  as  all  that  conies 
to  ;  you  perfectly  we'l  understood  why  my  poor  boy  wanted 
to  give  himself  a  false  name  on  board  the  /><'///  Pedro. 
You  perfectly  well  understood  why  he  wanted  to  rob  me ; 
and  you  egged  him  on,  you  egged  him  to  it.  If  you  hadn't 
egged  him  on,  he'd  never  have  done  it.  My  poor  Leo  was 
far  too  clever  a  lad  to  do  such  a  foolish  thing  as  thai — 
except  with  a  woman  driving  him.  There's  nothing  on  earth 
a  man  won't  do  when  a  woman  like  you  once  gets  fairly 
hold  of  him.  It's  you  that  have  done  it  all  ;  it's  you  that 
are  guiltiest ;  it's  you  that  have  robbed  me  of  my  money — 
and  of  Leo." 

Mme.  Ceriolo  cowered  with  her  face  in  her  hands, 
but  answered  nothing.  Clever  woman  as  she  was,  and 
swift  to  do  evil,  she  was  still  no  match  for  an  old  man's 
fiery  indignation. 

**  But  you  did  worse  than  that,"  Mr.  Solomons  went  on, 
after  a  brief  pause,  like  an  accusing  angel.  "  You  did 
worse  than  that.  For  all  that,  I  might,  perhaps,  in  the  end 
forgive  you.  But  what  else  you  did  I  can  never  forgive. 
In  the  last  hour  of  all  you  basely  deserted  him  !  " 

Mme.  Ceriolo  raised  her  head  and  stared  him  wildly  back. 
"  No,  I  didn't  !  "  she  cried  angrily.     ''  1  didn't,  I  didn't !" 

I.Ir.  Solomons  rose  and  looked  down  upon  her  with  scorn. 
"  More  lies,"  he  answered  contemptuously.  **  More  lies 
still,  woman.  Those  who  were  with  you  on  the  steamer 
that  night  have  told  me  all.  Don't  try  to  deceive  me. 
When  you  saw  all  hope  was  gone,  you  left  him  to  his  fate, 
and  thought  only  of  saving  your  own  wretched  life — you 
miserable  creature  !  You  left  him  to  drown.  You  know 
you  left  him." 

"  He  would  go  back  to  his  cabin  to  fetch  his  valuables  !  " 
Mme.  Ceriolo  moaned.  "  It  wasn't  my  fault.  I  tried  to 
dissuade  him." 


IH 


1 


W 


■^  I 


370 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


\\ 


"  Lies,"  Mr.  Solomons  answered  once  more  with  astonish- 
ing vehemence.  "  You  let  him  go  willingly.  You  abetted 
him  in  his  errand.  You  wanted  to  be  rid  of  him.  And  as 
soon  as  he  was  gone,  you  tried  to  save  yourself  by  jumping 
into  a  boat.  1  have  found  out  everything.  You  missed 
your  jump,  and  were  carried  off  by  the  wave.  But  you 
never  waited  or  cared  to  know  what  had  become  of  Leo. 
Your  one  thought  was  for  your  own  miserable  neck,  you 
Delilah  ! " 

Mme.  Ceriolo  plunged  her  face  in  her  hands  afresh, 
and  still  answered  nothing.  She  must  hold  her  tongue  for 
prudence  sake,  lest  speech  should  undo  her.  The  old  man 
had  spoken  of  doing  what  was  just.  There  were  still  hopes 
he  might  relent  to  some  practical  purpose.  It  was  best  not 
to  reply  and  needlessly  irritate  him.  So  she  sobbed  mutely 
on,  and  waited  for  a  turn  in  the  tide  of  his  emotions. 

For  many  minutes  Mr.  Solomons  went  on  talking,  ex- 
plaining, partly  to  her  and  partly  to  Paul,  who  looked  on 
somewhat  horrified,  the  nature  of  the  whole  conspiracy,  as 
he  understood  it,  and  niadame  still  cowered  and  shook  with 
sobbing.  At  last  Mr.  Solomons  paused,  and  allowed  her 
to  recover  her  equanimity  a  little.  Then  he  began  once 
more,  eying  her  sternly  as  ever.  "  And  now,  woman,"  he 
said,  "if  I'd  only  wanted  to  tell  you  all  this  I  wouldn't  have 
sent  for  you  at  all  this  evening.  But  I  wished  also  to  give 
you  a  chance  of  explaining,  if  explanation  was  possible, 
before  I  decided.  You  take  refuge  in  lies,  and  will  explain 
nothing.  So  I  know  the  worst,  I  believe,  is  true.  You 
concocted  this  plan,  and  when  you  found  it  was  failing, 
you  basely  tried  to  desert  my  poor  Lionel.  Very  well  ; 
on  that  score  I  owe  you  nothing,  but  fourteen  years'  im- 
prisonment with  hard  labor.  Still,  I  loved  Lionel ;  and  I 
can  never  forget  that  you  are  Lionel's  widow.  This  paper 
you  give  me  shows  me  you  were  his  wife — a  pitiful  wife  for 


RELICT  OF   THE  LA  TE  LIONEL   SOl.OAfONS. 


37t 


such  a  man  as  my  Lionel.  Hut  he  made  you  his  wife,  and 
I  respect  his  decision.  As  long  as  you  live  I  shall  pay  you 
an  allowance  of  two  hundred  a  year.  I  will  give  a  lump 
sum  that  will  bring  in  that  much  to  the  Jewish  Board  of 
Guardians  of  London  :  they  shall  hold  it  in  trust  for  you 
during  your  life,  and  on  your  death  it  will  revert  to  the 
poor  of  my  own  people.  If  ever  you'd  told  me  you'd 
wanted  to  marry  Leo  you'd  have  been  richer  far — a  great 
deal  richer  than  even  Leo  suspected — for  I've  done  well 
for  myself  in  life  ;  for  Leo — for  Leo.  But  you  chose  to  go 
to  \  >rk  the  underhand  way,  and  that  shall  be  your  penalty. 
You  may  know  what  you've  lost.  Never  come  near  my 
sight  again.  Never  write  to  me  or  communicate  with  me 
in  any  way  hereafter.  Never  dare  to  obtrude  yourself 
on  my  eyes  for  a  moment.  But  take  your  two  hundred. 
Take  them  and  go  away.     Do  you  accept  my  conditions  ? " 

Madame  felt  there  was  no  use  in  further  pretenses 
now. 

"  I  do,"  she  answered  calmly,  drying  her  reddened  eyes 
with  surprising  ease.  "  Two  hundred  a  year  for  life,  paya- 
ble quarterly  ? " 

Mr.  Solomons  nodded.  "  Just  so,"  he  said.  "  Now  go, 
woman." 

Mme.  Ceriolo  hesitated.  "  This  has  been  a  curious 
interview,"  she  said,  staring  round  and  mincing  a  little, 
"  and  Sir  Paul  Gascoyne  and  you  will  go  away,  perhaps, 
and  take  advantage  of  my  silence  to  say  to  other  peo- 
ple  " 

Mr.  Solomons  cut  her  short  with  a  terrible  look.  "  I 
would  never  soil  my  lips  with  mentioning  your  name  again," 
he  cried  out  angrily.  "  You  are  dead  to  me  forever.  I've 
done  with  you  now.  And  as  for  Sir  Paul  Gascoyne — why, 
miserable  creature  that  you  are— don't  you  even  know  when 
you  have  a  gentleman  to  deal  with  ? " 


if 


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ii. 


II 


I 

1 


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I 


i 


372 


T//£   SCA/.LYiVAG. 


Mme.  Ceriolo  bowed,  and  retreated  hastily.  It  was  an 
awkward  interview,  to  be  sure:  but,  atter  all,  two  hundred  a 
year  for  life  is  always  S(»inething.  And  she  thought  that 
she  could  really  and  truly  trust  to  the  Scallywag's  innocence: 
he  was  one  of  those  simple-niindcd,  foolish  young  men,  don't 
you  know,  who  have  queer  ideas  of  their  own  about  the 
sacredness  of  honor ! 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 
"a  modern  miracle." 

One  other  curious  thing  happened  before  they  left  Corn- 
wall. At  breakfast  next  morning,  as  they  sat  moody  and 
taciturn — for  Mr  Solomons  didn't  greatly  care  to  talk,  nor 
Paul  to  break  in  upon  his  companion's  blank  misery — the 
elder  man  suddenly  interrupted  the  even  flow  of  their 
silence  by  saying  with  a  burst,"  I  think  Miss  Blair  lives  in 
Cornwall." 

"She  does,"  Paul  answered,  starting,  and  completely 
taken  aback,  for  he  had  no  idea  Mr,  Solomons  even  knew 
of  his  Nea's  existence.  Then,  after  a  slight  pause,  he 
added  shylj',  "  She  lives  near  Fowey." 

"We  passed  the  junction  station  on  our  way  down,  I 
noticed,"  Mr.  Solomons  went  on  in  a  measured  voice. 

"Yes,"  Paul  replied,  surprised  once  more  that  the  old 
man  had  observed  it.  Young  people  always  imagine  their 
little  love-affairs  entirely  escape  the  eyes  of  their  elders: 
which  is  absurd.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  everybody  discovers 
them. 

"We  shall  pass  it  again  on  our  way  back,"  Mr.  Solomons 
went  on,  in  that  weary,  dreary,  dead-alive  tone  in  which  he 
had  said  everything  since  Lionel's  death  and  his  terrible 
awakening. 


//    .\fOn/:A\V  MTRACI.F.r 


373 


t! 


nor 


"Naturally,"  Paul  answered,  looking  up  in  amaze,  and 
much  wondering  whither  this  enigmatic  conversation 
tended. 

Mr.  Solomons  paused,  and  looked  over  toward  him 
kindly.  **  Paul,  my  boy,"  he  said,  with  a  little  tremor  in  his 
throat — "you'll  excuse  my  calling  you  Paul  now  as  I  used 
to  do  in  the  old  days,  you  know — Paul,  my  boy,  it  seems  a 
pity,  now  you're  so  near,  you  shouldn't  drop  in  as  you  pass 
and  see  her." 

Paul  let  his  fork  drop  in  blank  astonishment.  To  be  sure, 
he  had  thought  as  much  a  dozen  times  himself,  but  he  had 
never  dared  to  envisage  it  as  practically  possible.  "  Mow 
good  of  you  to  think  of  it — and  now  especially  ! "  he 
exclaimed  with  genuine  gratitude. 

Mr.  Solomon  drew  himself  up  stiffly,  and  froze  at  once. 
"  I  was  thinking,"  he  said,  "  that  as  a  matter  of  business,  it 
might  be  well  if  yoa  got  that  question  about  marrying  settled 
some  day,  one  way  or  the  other.  I  regarded  it  only  in  the 
light  of  my  own  interests — the  interests  of  the  Jewish  widows 
and  orphans.  They're  all  I  have  left  to  work  for  now  :  but 
you  don't  get  rid  of  the  habits  of  a  lifetime  in  a  day  ;  and 
I  shall  look  after  their  money  as  I  looked  after — Lionel's. 
It's  become  an  instinct  with  me.  Now,  you  see,  Sir  Paul, 
I've  got  a  vested  interest,  so  to  speak,  in  your  future — it's 
mortgaged  to  me,  in  fact,  as  you  know  ;  and  I  must  do  my 
best  by  it.  If  you  won't  marry  the  sort  of  lady  I  expected 
j'ou  to  marry,  and  had  a  claim  to  believe  you'd  try  to  marry, 
in  my  interest — at  least  don't  let  me  be  a  loser  by  your 
remaining  single.  I've  always  considered  that  being  in 
love's  a  very  bad  thing  indeed  for  a  man's  business  prospects. 
It  upsets  his  mind,  and  prevents  him  from  concentrating 
himself  body  and  soul  on  the  work  he  has  in  hand.  A  man 
who  has  to  make  his  own  way  in  the  world,  therefore,  ought 
to  do  one  of  two  things.     Either  he  should  avoid  falling  in 


/« 


^ 


(t 


It 


It' 


374 


THE  SCALLYWAG. 


love  at  all,  which  is  much  the  safest  plan — I  followed  It  my. 
self — or  else,  if  he  can't  do  that,  he  should  marry  out  of 
hand,  and  be  able  to  devote  himself  thenceforward  un- 
reservedly to  business." 

Paul  could  hardly  help  smiling  at  this  intensely  practical 
view  of  the  situation,  in  spite  of  the  cold  air  of  utter  despon- 
dency with  which  Mr.  Solomons  delivered  it :  but  he 
answered  with  as  grave  a  face  as  he  coiilil,  '*  I  think  myself 
it  may  act  the  other  way — as  a  spur  and  in;  i  ntive  to  further 
exertion." 

"  No,"  Mr.  Solomons  retorted  firmly.  "  In  your  case  no. 
If  you  waited  to  marry  till  you'd  cleared  off  your  debt,  you'd 
lose  heart  at  once.  As  a  security  for  myself,  I  advise  you 
to  marry  as  soon  as  ever  the  lady'll  take  you." 

"  And  yet,"  Paul  answered,  "  it  was  consideration  for  your 
claims  that  made  us  both  feel  it  was  utterly  hopeless." 

"Exactly  so,"  Mr.  Solomons  replied,  in  the  same  cold, 
hard  voice.  "That's  just  where  it  is.  What  chance  have  I 
got  of  ever  seeing  my  money  back  again — my  hard-saved 
mone)',  that  I  advanced  for  your  education  and  to  make  a 
gentleman  of  you— .if  you  begin  by  falling  in  love  with  .a 
penniless  girl,  and  feeling,  both  of  you,  that  it's  utterly  hope- 
less ?  Is  that  the  kind  of  mood  that  makes  a  man  fit  for 
earning  and  saving  money,  I  ask  you  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  not,"  Paul  answered,  penitently. 

"  And  I'm  afraid  not  either,"  Mr.  Solomons  went  on,  with 
icy  sternness.  "  You've  paid  up  regularly  so  far — that  I 
admit  in  justice  :  and  mind,  I  shall  expect  you  to  pay  up 
just  as  regularly  in  future.  Don't  suppose  for  a  moment 
I  won't  look  after  the  Jewish  widows'  and  orphans'  inter- 
ests as  carefully  as  ever  I  looked  after  poor  Leo's.  You've 
got  in  o  debt  with  your  eyes  open,  and  you've  got  to  get 
out  of  it  now  as  best  you  can."  (Paul,  listening  aghast,  felt 
that  his  disillusionment  had  hardened  Mr.  Solomons  terri- 


•'//    AfODKRX  miracle:' 


375 


bly.)  "  And  the  only  way  I  can  see  for  yon  to  do  is  to  put 
the  boldest  face  upon  it  at  once,  and  marry  this  yonnjj; 
lady." 

"You  think  so?"  Paul  asked  timidly,  half  wishing  he 
could  see  things  in  the  same  light. 

••  Yes,  I  do,"  Mr.  Solomons  replied,  with  snappish  prompt- 
itude. "I  look  at  it  this  way.  You  can  keep  your  wife 
for  very  little  more  than  it  costs  you  to  keep  yourself ;  and 
your  talents  will  be  set  free  for  your  work  alone.  You 
could  teach  her  to  help  you  copy  your  manuscripts  or  work 
a  typewriter.  I  believe  you'd  earn  twice  as  much  in. the 
end,  if  you  married  her  for  a  typewriter,  and  you'd  pay 
me  off  a  great  deal  faster." 

"  Well,  I'll  think  about  it,"  Paul  answered. 

"  Don't  think  about  it,"  Mr.  Solomons  replied,  with  curt 
incisiveness.  "  In  business,  thinking's  the  thief  of  oppor- 
tunity. It's  prompt  decision  that  wins  the  prize.  Stop  at 
Fowey  this  very  afternoon  and  talk  it  over  off  hand  with 
the  lady  and  her  father." 

And  so,  to  his  own  immense  surprise,  almost  before  he'd 
time  to  realize  the  situation,  Paul  found  himself,  by  three 
o'clock  that  day,  knocking  at  the  door  of  Mr.  Blair's  rec- 
tory. 

He  knocked  with  a  good  deal  of  timorous  hesitation  ; 
for  though,  to  be  sure,  he  had  sent  on  a  telegram  to 
announce  his  coming  to  Nea,  he  was  naturally  so  modest 
and  diffident  a  young  man  that  he  greatly  feared  his  recep- 
tion by  Nea's  father.  Fathers  are  always  such  hard  nuts 
to  tackle.  Indeed,  to  say  the  truth,  Paul  v/as  even  now,  in 
spite  of  experience,  slow  to  perceive  the  difference  in  his 
position  made  by  his  accession  to  the  dignity  of  the  baro- 
netcy. No  doubt,  every  day  would  serve  to  open  his  eyes 
more  to  the  real  state  of  the  case  in  this  important  particu- 
lar ;  but  each  such  discovery  stood  alone,  as  it  were,  on  its 


it 


/ 


■I 


\\ 


i\\ 


f 


f 


m 


II 


376 


r//£  SCAU.yil'AG. 


own  jjroiind,  and  loft  him  almost  as  nervous  as  ever  before 
each  new  situation,  anti  ahnost  as  miidi  surprised  when 
that  social  •'  Open  sesame  !  "  once  more  succeeded  in  work- 
ing its  familiar  wonders. 

Any  doubt  he  might  have  felt,  however,  disappeared 
almf)st  at  once  when  Nea  in  person,  more  visibly  agitated 
than  he  had  ever  yet  behekl  her,  opened  the  door  for  iiim, 
and  wluMi  her  father  with  profuse  hospitality,  instead  of 
regarding  him  as  a  dangerous  intruder,  expressed  with 
much  warmth  iiis  profound  regret  that  Sir  l*aul  couldn't 
stop  the  night  at  the  rectory.  Nay,  more,  that  prudent 
father  took  special  care  they  shoultl  all  go  out  into  the 
garden  for  the  brief  interview,  and  that  he  himself  should 
keep  at  a  safe  distance  with  a  convenient  sister-in-law, 
pacing  the  lawn,  while  I*aul  and  Nea  walked  on  in  front  and 
discoursed — presumably — about  the  flowers  in  the  border. 

T'  •  brought  face  to  face  with  the  future,  Paul  briefly 
expi.  1  to  Nea  Mr,  Solomons'  new  point  of  view,  and 
the  question  which  it  left  open  so  clearly  before  them. 

Now  Nea  was  young,  but  Nea  was  a  rock  of  prac- 
tical commonsense,  as  your  good  and  impulsive  West 
Country  girl  is  often  apt  to  be.  Instead  of  jumping 
foolishly  at  Mr.  Solomons'  proposal  because  it  offered 
a  loophole  for  immediate  marriage,  as  you  or  I  would  have 
done,  she  answered  at  once,  with  judicious  wisdom,  that, 
much  as  she  loved  Paul  and  much  as  she  longed  for  that 
impossible  day  to  arrive  when  they  two  might  be  one,  she 
couldn't  bear,  even  v/ith  Mr.  Solomons'  consent,  so  far  to 
burden  Paul's  already  too  heavily  mortgaged  future. 

"  Paul !  "  she  said,  trembling,  for  it  was  a  hard  wrench, 
"  if  I  loved  you  less,  I  might  perhaps  say  yes  ;  but  I  love 
you  so  much  that  I  must  still  say  tw  to  you.  Perhaps  some 
day  you  may  make  a  great  hit — and  then  you  could  wipe  off 
all  your  burdens  at  once — and  then,  dear,  we  two  could  be 


*' A   AfOD/:A'X  Af/KACrhir 


377 


happy  together.  Hut,  till  then,  I  love  you  too  well  to  add 
to  your  anxieties.  I  know  there's  some  truth  in  wliat  Mr. 
Solomons  says  ;  but  it's  only  half  a  truth  if  you  examine  it 
closely.  When  I  look  forward  and  think  (jf  the  long  strug- 
gle it  would  bring  you,  and  the  weary  ilays  of  workmg  at 
your  desk,  and  the  fears  and  anxieties,  I  can't  bear  to  face  it. 
NVc  must  wait  and  |j()[)e  still,  Paul  :  after  all,  it  looks  a  little 
nearer  now  than  when  you  said  goodby  to  me  that  day  at 
Oxford  !  " 

Paul  looked  down  at  the  gi  avcl-path  with  a  certain  shock 
of  momentary  disa|)p()inlnuMil.  He  had  expected  all  this  ; 
indeed,  if  Nea  hadn't  said  it,  Ix;  would  have  thought  the  less 
of  her  ;  and  yet,  for  all  that,  he  was  disappointed. 

*•  It  seems  such  an  interminable  lime  to  wait,"  he  said, 
with  a  rising  lumj)  in  his  throat.  "  I  know  you're  right — 
I  felt  sure  you'd  say  so — but,  still,  it's  hard  to  put  it  off 
again,  Nea.  When  Mr.  Solomons  spoke  to  me  I  half  felt  it 
was  best  to  do  as  he  said.  Hut  now  you've  put  it  as  you  put 
it  just  now,  I  feel  I've  tio  right  to  impose  the  strain  upon 
you,  dearest." 

*•  Some  day  something  will  turn  up,"  Nea  answered  hope- 
fully— for  Paul's  sake — lest  she  should  wholly  crush  him. 
"  1  can  wait  for  you  forever,  Paul.  If  you  love  me,  that's 
enough.  And  it's  a  great  thing  that  I  can  write  to  you,  and 
that  my  letters  cheer  you." 

Nevertheless,  it  was  with  a  somewhat  heavy  heart  that 
Paul  rejoined  Mr.  Solomons  at  Par  Junction  that  evening, 
feeling  that  he  must  still  wait,  as  before,  for  some  indefinite 
future. 

"  Well,  what  have  you  arranged  ?  "  Mr.  Solomons  asked, 
with  a  certain  shadow  of  interest  rare  with  him  these  last 
days,  as  he  advanced  to  greet  him. 

"  Oh,  nothing  !  "  Paul  answered  blandly.  "  Miss  Blair 
says  we  oughtn't   to  get    married    while    I'm  so   much 


I 


378 


THE   SCI /./.y  II  .10'. 


I 


ii; 


biirdnied  ;  and  I  didn't  think  it  would  be  right  on  her 
account  to  urge  licr  to  share  my  burdens  under  such 
peculiar  circumstances.  Vou  see  I've  her  interests  as  well 
as  yours  to  think  at)out." 

Mr.  Solomons  glanced  hard  at  him  with  a  suspicious 
look.  For  a  second  his  lij)s  parted,  irresolute,  as  if  he  liall 
intended  to  say  something  important.  'I'hen  they  shut 
again  close,  like  an  iron  trap,  with  that  cold,  hard  look  now 
fixed  sternly  upon  them. 

*'  I  shall  lose  my  money."  he  said  curtly.  **  I  shall  never 
be  paid  as  long  as  1  live.  You'll  do  no  proper  work  with 
that  girl  on  your  brain.  But  no  matter — no  matter.  'I'he 
Jewish  widows  and  orphans  won't  lose  in  the  end.  1  can 
trust  you  to  work  your  fingers  to  the  bone  rather  than 
leave  a  penny  unpaid,  however  long  it  may  take  you.  Anil 
mark  you,  Sir  P  ul,  as  you  and  the  young  lady  won't  follow 
my  advice,  I  expect  you  to  do  it,  too — 1  expect  you  to  do 
it." 

Paul  bowed  his  head  to  his  task-master. 

"  I  will  pay  you  every  penny,  Mr.  Solomons,"  he  said, 
•*  if  I  work  mvself  to  death  with  it." 

The  old  man's  face  grew  harder  and  colder  still. 

"Well,  mind  you  do  it  quick,"  he  said  testily.  "I 
haven't  got  long  left  to  live  now,  and  I  don't  want  to  be 
kept  out  of  my  money  forever." 

But  at  the  rectory  near  Fowey,  if  Paul  could  only  have 
seen  the  profo  ndly  affectionate  air  with  which,  the 
moment  his  back  was  turned,  Mr.  Blair  threw  his  arm  round 
his  daughter's  neck,  and  inquired  eagerly,  "  Well,  what  did 
Sir  Paul  say  to  you,  Nea  ?  " — even  he  would  have  laughed 
at  his  own  timid  fears  anent  the  bearding  of  that  alarming 
animal,  the  British  father,  in  his  own  rectorial  lair  in  Corn- 
wall. And  had  he  further  observed  the  dejected  surprise 
with  which  Mr.  Blair  received  Nea's  guarded  report  of  their 


PKF.SSl'A'F.    AXn    Tf.XS/OA'. 


i79 


said, 

"I 

to  be 


rprise 
their 


brief  interview,  he  would  have  woiulercd  to  himself  how  he 
could  ever  have  overlooked  the  mol'.ifyiuj;  influence  on  the 
paternal  heart  of  that  magical  sound,  *'  Sir  Paul  Ciascoyne. 
Haronet." 

For  Mr.  HIair  heaved  a  deep  sigh  as  he  heard  it,  and 
murnuirctl  softly  to  himself. 

**  He  seems  a  most  worthy,  high-minded,  well-principled 
young  man.  I  wish  we  could  help  him  out  of  hisdifhculticsi 
anyhow." 

ClIAriKK  XLV. 

PRKSSURE    AND    TK.NSION. 

A  YEAR  passed  away — a  long,  long  year  of  twelve  whole 
weary  months— during  which  many  small  but  important 
incidents  happened  to  Paul  and  to  Nea  also. 

For  one  thing,  a  few  liays  after  Paul's  return  to  town, 
Mr.  Solomons  dropped  in  one  afternoon  at  the  young  man's 
chambers  in  the  little  lane  off  Gower  street.  The  week 
had  aged  him  much.  A  settled  gloom  brooded  over  his 
face,  and  that  stern  look  about  the  corners  of  his  mouth 
seemed  more  deeply  ingrained  in  its  very  lines  than  ever. 
His  hair  was  grayer  and  his  eyes  less  keen.  But,  strange 
to  say,  the  blue  tint  had  faded  wholly  from  his  lips,  and  his 
cheeks  bore  less  markedly  the  signs  of  that  weakness  of 
the  heart  which  some  short  time  before  had  been  so  pain- 
fully apparent.  He  sat  down  moodily  in  Paul's  easy-chair, 
and  drew  forth  a  folded  sheet  of  official-looking  paper  from 
his  inner  breast-pocket. 

*'  Sir  Paul,"  he  said,  bending  forward,  with  less  of  famili- 
arity and  more  coldness  than  usual,  "  I've  brough ,  up  this 
paper  for  you  to  take  care  of.  I've  brought  it  to  \ou  rather 
than  to  anybody  else  because  I  believe  I  can  really  trust 


i! 


/i 


t 


,: « 


fii 


38o 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


|i 


you.  After  the  blow  I've  received — and  how  terrible  a 
blow  it  was  no  man  living  will  ever  know,  for  I'm  of  the 
sort  that  these  things  affect  internally — after  the  blow  I've 
received,  perhaps  I'm  a  fool  to  trust  any  man.  Hut  I  think 
not.  1  think  I  know  you.  As  I  said  to  that  miserable 
woman  the  other  evening,  one  ought  at  least  to  know  when 
one  has  a  gentleman  to  deal  with." 

Paul  bowed  his  head  with  a  faint  blush  of  modestv  at  so 
much  commendation  from  Mr.  Solomons. 

"  It's  very  good  of  you,"  he  said,  *'  to  think  so  well  of  me. 
I  hope,  Mr.  Solomons,  I  shall  always  be  able  to  deserve 
your  confidence." 

Mr.  Solomons  glanced  up  suspiciously  once  more. 

"1  hope  so,"  he  said  in  a  very  dry  voice.  "  I  hope  you 
won't  forget  that  a  debt's  a  debt,  whether  it's  owed  to  poor 
Leo  and  me  or  to  the  Metropolitan  Jewish  Widows  and 
Orphans.  Well,  that's  neither  here  nor  there.  What  I 
want  you  to  do  to-day  is  to  look  at  this  will — circum.stances 
have  compelled  me  to  make  a  new  one — and  to  see  whether 
it  meets  with  your  approbation," 

Paul  took  the  paper  with  a  faint  smile  and  read  it  care- 
fully through.  It  resembled  the  former  one  in  most  par- 
ticulars, except,  of  course,  for  the  entire  omission  of 
Lionel's  name  in  the  list  of  bequests;  but  it  differed  in  two 
or  three  minor  points.  The  bulk  of  Mr.  Solomons'  fortune 
was  now  left,  in  trust,  to  the  Jewish  Board  of  Guardians  ; 
and  the  notes  and  acceptances  of  Sir  Paul  Gascoyne,  Bar- 
onet, were  specially  mentioned  by  name  among  the  effects 
bequeathed  to  those  worthy  gentlemen,  to  be  employed  for 
the  good  of  the  Metropolitan  Hebrew  community.  Men- 
tion was  also  made  of  a  certain  sum,  already  paid  over  in 
trust  to  the  Board  for  the  benefit  of  Maria  Agnese  Solo- 
mons, widow  of  Lionel  Solomons,  deceased,  which  was  to 
revert,  on  the  death  of  the  said  Maria  Agnese  to  the  Gen- 


PRESSURE   AND    TEXSrOY. 


38 1 


eral  Trust,  and  be  employed  by  the  Ciuardians  for  the 
same  purposes.  There  was  a  special  bequest  of  ten  pounds 
to  Sir  Paul  Gascoyne,  Baronet,  for  a  mourning  ring  ;  and  a 
similar  bequest  to  Faith,  wife  of  Charles  Thistleton,  Esquire, 
and  one  of  the  testator's  most  esteemed  friends.  But 
beyond  that  small  testimony  of  regard  there  was  little  to 
Interest  Paul  in  the  document.  He  handed  it  back  with  a 
smile  to  Mr.  Solomons,  and  said  shortly,  **  I  think  there's 
nothing  to  object  to  in  any  part  of  it.  It  was  kind  of  you 
'to  remember  myself  and  my  sister." 

Mr.  Solomons'  eyes  looked  him  through  and  through. 

"  I  want  you  to  take  care  of  it,"  he  said  abruptly. 

"  I  will,"  Paul  answered.  "  But  I  would  like  first  to  ask 
you  just  one  favor." 

"  What's  that  ?  "  Mr.  Solomons  asked  sharply. 

"  If  I  can  succeed  in  paying  you  off  during — well,  during 
your  own  lifetime,  will  you  kindly  remove  the  mention  of 
my  notes  and  acceptances  ?  I  wouldn't  like  them  to  be 
noticed  in  the  papers,  if  possible," 

"  I  will,"  Mr.  Solomons  answered,  looking  at  him  harder 
than  ever.    "  Sir  Paul,  you're  a  very  honorable  young  man." 

''  Thank  you,"  Paul  replied.  '*  You  are  always  very  good 
to  me." 

"  They  don't  all  talk  like  that  !  "  Mr.  Solomons  retorted, 
with  temper.  "  They  mostly  call  me  a  *  damned  old  Jew.* 
That's  generally  all  the  praise  a  man  gets  for  helping 
people  out  of  their  worst  difficulties." 

And  he  left  the  will  with  Paul  with  many  strict  injunctions 
to  keep  it  safe,  and  to  take  care  nobody  ever  had  a  chance 
of  meddling  with  it. 

In  the  course  of  the  year,  too,  Paul  was  very  successful 
in  his  literary  ventures.  Work  flowed  in  faster  than  he 
could  possibly  do  it.  That's  the  luck  of  the  trade  :  some- 
times the  deserving  man  plods  on  unrecognized  till  he's 


\M 


I  t: 


.^82 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


nearly  fifty  before  anybody  hears  of  him  ;  sometimes  edi- 
tors  seem  to  hunt  out  with  a  rush  the  merest  beginner  who 
shows  promise  or  performance.  It's  all  a  lottery,  and  Paul 
happened  to  be  one  of  the  lucky  few  who  draw  winning 
numbers.  Perhaps  that  magical  suffix  of  "  liart."  stood 
here,  too,  in  good  stead  ;  perhaps  his  own  merits  secured 
him  custom  ;  but,  at  any  rate,  he  wrote  hopefully  to  Nea,  if 
health  and  strength  kept  up,  he  could  get  as  many  engage- 
ments now  as  ever  he  wanted. 

Health  and  strength,  however,  were  severely  tried  in  the 
effort  to  fulfill  Mr.  Solomons'  exacting  requirements.  Paul 
worked  early  and  late,  at  the  hardest  of  all  trades  (for  if 
you  think  literature  is  mere  play,  dear  sir  or  madam,  you're 
profoundly  mistaken);  and  he  saved,  too,  much  out  of  food 
and  lodging  in  order  to  meet  as  many  as  possible  of  those 
hateful  notes  from  quarter  to  quarter.  Mr.  Solomons  him- 
self remonstrated  at  times;  he  complained  that  Paul,  by 
starving  himself  and  working  too  hard,  was  running  the  risk 
in  the  long  run  of  defrauding  his  creditor.  •*  For  all  that, 
you  know,"  he  said  demonstratively,  "  your  health  and 
strength's  myonly  security.  Of  course  there's  the  insur- 
ance ;  that's  all  right  if  you  die  outright  ;  but  literary  men 
who  break  down  don't  generally  die  ;  they  linger  on  for- 
ever a  burden  to  their  friends  or  the  parish,  with  nervous 
diseases.  As  a  duty  to  me,  Sir  Paul,  and  to  the  Metropoli- 
tan Widows  and  Orphans,  you  ought  to  feed  yourself  better 
and  take  more  rest.  I  don't  mean  to  say  I  don't  like  to  see 
a  young  man  working  hard  and  paying  up  regular  ;  that's 
only  honest ;  but  what  I  say  is  this  :  there's  moderation  in 
all  things.  It  isn't  fair  to  me,  you  see,  to  run  the  risk  of 
laying  yourself  up  before  you've  paid  it  all  off  to  the  last 
farthing." 

Nevertheless  it  must  be  admitted  that  Mr.  Solomons 
received    Paul's  hard-earned  money   with  a  certain  close- 


\% ' 


PRESSURE  AND    TENSION. 


383 


fisted  joy  which  sometimes  shocked,  and  even  surprised, 
his  simple-hearted  young  debtor.  'I'o  say  the  truth,  the 
miserly  instinct  in  Mr.  Solomons,  kept  somewhat  in  check 
by  many  better  feelings  during  Mr.  Lionel's  lifetime, 
seemed  now  completely  to  have  gained  the  upper  hand  in 
his  cramped  and  narrowed  later  nature.  They  say  the  rul- 
ing passions  grow  fiercer  in  old  age  ;  doubtless  they  are 
wrong  ;  but  in  Mr.  Solomons'  case  the  proverbial  paradox 
had  at  least  a  certain  external  semblance  of  justification. 
Quarter  after  quarter,  as  Paul  paid  in  his  instalments  of 
principal  and  interest,  the  old  man  grumbled  over  and  over 
again  at  the  insufficiency  of  the  amount  and  the  slowness 
of  the  repayment.  Yet  what  seemed  to  Paul  strangest  of 
all  was  the  apparent  contradiction  that  while  Mr.  Solomons 
thus  perpetually  urged  him  by  implication  to  work  harder 
and  harder,  he  was  at  the  same  time  forever  urging  him  in 
so  many  words  to  take  more  holiday  and  spend  more 
money  and  time  on  food  and  pleasure.  Not  that  Mr. 
Solomons  ever  put  these  requests  upon  sympathetic 
grounds :  he  always  based  them  solely  and  wholly  on  con- 
siderations of  his  own  interest.  **  If  you  don't  take  more 
care  of  yourself,"  he  would  often  say  with  that  cold  stern 
face  unchanged  for  one  moment,  "you'll  make  yourself 
ill,  and  go  off  into  a  nervous  wreck,  and  come  upon  the 
parish — and  then  what'll  become  of  all  the  money  I've 
advanced  you  ? " 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  Paul  would  answer.  "  I  feel  I  must 
somehow  ;  I  can  never  rest  till  I've  cleared  it  all  off,  and 
am  my  own  master." 

"  I  know  what  that  means,"  Mr.  Solomons  said  once, 
near  the  end  of  the  year  when  autumn  was  coming  round 
again.  "  You're  in  a  hurry  to  marry  this  young  lady  down 
in  Cornwall.  Ah,  that's  just  the  way  of  all  you  borrowing 
people.    You  enter  into  contracts  with  one  man  first,  for 


I 

I 

1 


384 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


\v 


III 


money  down,  his  own  hard-saved  money,  that  he's  made 
and  hoarded  ;  and  then,  when  you've  eaten  and  drunk  it  all 
up,  you  go  and  fall  in  love  with  some  girl  you've  never 
seen  in  your  lives  before,  and  for  her  sake,  a  stranger's 
sake,  you  forjj^et  all  about  your  vested  obligations.  I  wish 
you'd  take  my  advice  and  marry  the  young  woman  out  of 
hand.     I'd  be  all  the  safer  in  the  end  to  get  my  money." 

Paul  shook  his  head. 

"  I  can't  bear  to,  and,  even  if  I  would.  Miss  Blair 
wouldn't.  She  said  herself  she'd  never  burden  my  life 
any  further.  1  must  work  on  now  to  the  bitter  end,  and  in 
the  course  of  years,  perhaps,  I  may  be  able  to  marry  her." 

"  In  the  course  of  years  !  "  Mr.  Solomons  echoed  fret- 
fully. "  In  the  course  of  years,  indeed  !  And  do  you  think, 
then,  I'm  going  to  live  on  forever  ?  No,  no  ;  I  want  to  see 
some  pleasure  and  satisfaction  out  of  my  money  in  my  own 
lifetime.  I'm  not  going  to  stand  this  sort  of  thing  much 
longer.  You  ought  to  marry  her,  and  settle  down  in  life 
to  do  better  work.  If  you'd  get  a  house  of  your  own  now, 
with  Lady  Gascoyne  at  the  head  of  your  table,  and  could 
give  dinners,  and  invite  the  world,  and  take  your  proper 
part  in  London  society,  you'd  soon  be  coining  money — a 
man  of  your  brains,  with  no  home  to  entertain  in  !  You're 
keeping  me  out  of  my  own — that's  just  what  I  call  it." 

"  I'm  sorry  I  di.sappoint  you,  Mr.  Solomons,"  Paul 
answered  sadly,  "  but  I'm  afraid  I  can't  help  it.  I  can 
never  marry  till  I'm  independent." 

Mr.  Solomons  rose  and  moved  to  the  door. 

"  I  must  put  a  stop  to  this  nonsense,"  he  murmured  reso- 
lutely. "  I  can't  let  this  sort  of  thing  go  on  much  longer. 
If  I  have  to  put  the  Courts  in  action  to  get  what  I  want,  I 
must  put  a  stop  before  another  week  to  this  confounded 
nonsense." 

"  Put  the  Courts  in  action  !  "  Paul  cried,  aghast  at  the 


I 


/. 


PRESSURE    AXD    7'EA'S/oy. 


385 


Ugly  phrase.  "Oh,  no,  Mr.  Solomons,  you  can  never  mean 
that  I  You  won't  expose  an  old  friend,  who  has  always 
tried  his  best  to  repay  you  for  all  your  kindness,  to  so  much 
unpleasantness.  1'!!  do  anything — in  reason — to  prevent 
such  a  contjngency." 

But  Mr.  Soloinons  only  gazed  back  at  him  with  that 
inquiring  glance.  Then  he  drew  himself  up  and  said  with 
a  stony  face  : 

"  Sir  Paul  Gascoyne,  I've  always  said  you  were  a  gentle- 
man. I  hope  you  won't  compel  me  to  be  too  hard  upon 
you.  I  hope  you'll  think  it  over,  and  see  your  way  to 
marry  the  lady." 

Paul  flung  himself  back  in  his  easy-chair  as  Mr.  Solo- 
mons closed  the  door  behind  him,  and  felt  for  once  in  his 
life  very  bitterly  against  his  old  benefactor,  as  he  had 
always  considered  him.  He  was  half  inclined,  in  that 
moment  of  pique,  to  take  him  at  his  word,  and  to  beg  and 
implore  Nea  to  marry  him  immediately.  1 

As  for  Mr.  Solomons,  in  his  lonely  room  at  Hillborough 
that  night,  he  sat  down  by  himself,  with  a  resolute  air,  to 
write  two  letters  which  he  hoped  might  influence  his  recal- 
citrant debtor.  He  wrote  them  in  a  firm,  clear  hand,  little 
shaky  with  age,  and  read  them  over  more  than  once  to 
himself,  admiring  his  own  persuasive  eloquence.  Then  he 
put  them  into  two  envelopes,  and  duly  directed  them.  The 
superscription  of  one  was  to  the  Rev.  Walter  Blair,  the 
Rectory,  Lanhydran,  near  Fowey,  Cornwall.  That  of  the 
other  was  to  Mrs.  Charles  Thistleton,  Wardiaw  House,  The 
Parks,  Sheffield.  And  what  especially  impelled  him  to 
write  this  last  was  the  fact  that  Miss  Nea  Blair  was  at  that 
moment  in  the  north,  on  a  long  promised  visit  to  Sir  Paul's 
sister. 


'.  'I 


i; ;. 


■I 


386  THE   SCALLYWAG. 


CHAPTKR    XLVI. 

A    TKANSACTION    IN     DIAMONDS. 

Three  days  later  Mr.  Solomons  happened  to  have 
business  in  town  which  took  liini  up  into  Cheapside  on  a 
very  unwonted  shopping  expedition.  Mr.  Solomons,  in 
fact,  was  bent  on  the  purchase  of  jewelry. 

He  had  been  more  particularly  driven  to  this  novel  pur- 
suit  by  the  simultaneous  receipt  of  two  letterr,  from  two 
opposite  ends  of  England  on  that  self-same  morning. 
One  of  them  bore  the  Fowey  postmark  ;  the  other, 
addressed  in  a  feminine  hand,  w:is  dated  "  Sheffield." 
Mr.  Solomons  smiled  somewhat  grimly  to  himself  as  he 
read  this  last.  "  Eighteen  months  of  wealth  and  pros- 
perity have  strangely  developed  our  old  friend  Faith,"  he 
thought  in  his  own  soul.  '*  How  glibly  she  talks  about 
money  now,  as  if  it  was  water  !  She  doesn't  seem  to  think 
much  about  Sir  Paul's  difficulties.  They  vanish  far  more 
easily  in  her  mind  to-day  than  in  the  hard  old  days  down 
at  Plowden's  Court  in  Hillborough." 

But  Mr.  Solomons  was  too  much  of  a  philosopher  in  his 
way  to  let  this  natural  evolution  of  the  female  mind  disturb 
for  a  moment  his  somber  equanimity.  Men,  he  knew,  rise 
sometimes  to  the  occasion  ;  women  always.  So  he  went 
on  his  way  to  London  with  that  settled  solid  calm  of  a  life 
that  has  now  no  hope  left  in  it,  and  that  goes  on  upon  its 
dull  routine  by  pure  mechanical  habit. 

Nevertheless,  that  habit  was  the  habit  of  a  lifetime 
devoted  to  making  and  saving  money.  In  dealing  with  a 
debtor  and  in  haggling  with  a  seller,  Mr.  Solomons'  soul 
was  still  as  keen  as  ever.     He  watched  over  the  interests  of 


, 


'■S^isi:iit 


A    TFAXSACTlO^r  //V   /)/.4AfOXPS. 


3«7 


the  Jewish  widows  aiul  orphans  as  closely  as  ever  in 
happier  times  he  had  watched  over  his  own  and  I-eo's.  A 
gain  or  loss  of  sixpence  still  seemed  to  him  a  matter  well 
worth  strnggling  over  ;  a  rise  or  fall  of  one-eighth  per  cent. 
on  the  market  price  of  Portuguese  Threes  still  put  his  over- 
worked heart  into  a  flutter  of  excitement.  It  was  with 
judicious  care,  therefore,  that  he  selected  for  his  patronage 
the  shop  of  a  fellow-tribesman  in  a  street  off  (heapside, 
and  proceeded  to  effect  a  suitable  bargain  in  jewelry. 

The  utter  downfall  of  a  life's  dream  would  have  made 
most  men  wholly  careless  as  to  anything  like  money 
matters.  It  had  only  made  Mr.  Solomons  closer- fisted 
than  ever. 

'*  I  should  like,"  Mr.  Solomons  said,  as  he  entered  the 
shop  and  addressed  himself  with  severity  to  the  smug- 
faced  and  black-whiskered  young  man  at  the  counter  ;  "  I 
should  like  to  see  a  diamond  necklet." 

"  Yes,  sir.  About  what  price,  sir?"  the  smug-faced 
young  man  replied  briskly. 

Mr.  Solomons  looked  him  through  and  through  with  a 
contemptuous  air.  *'  The  price,"  he  answered  sententiously, 
"  depends  as  a  rule  to  some  extent  upon  the  quality.'* 

**  Merely  as  a  guide  to  the  class  of  goods  I  should  first 
submit  to  you,"  the  smug-faced  young  man  went  on,  still 
more  briskly  than  before.  "  Our  immense  stock  !  The 
variety  of  our  patterns  !     The  difficulty  of  a  selection  !  " 

"  Do  you  take  me  for  a  fool,  young  man  ? "  Mr.  Solo- 
mons retorted  severely,  eying  him  askance.  "  Nobody  has 
an  immense  stock  of  diamond  necklets,  ready-made.  Show 
me  your  goods  first,  and  I'll  make  my  choice.  After  that 
we'll  arrive  at  an  arrangement  as  to  value. 

"  I  thinks  Mr.  Nathan,"  the  proprietor  observed  to  the 
smug-faced  young  man,  who  fell  back,  crestfallen,  *'  I'd 
better  attend  to  this  gentleman  myself."     For  he  plainly 


! 


Il 


388 


THE   SCALI.YIVAC. 


'VI 


I 


foresaw  hard  bargaining.  "  I've  met  you  before,  sir,  I 
believe,"  he  went  on,     "  Mr.  Solomons  of  Hillborough  ?  " 

Mr.  Solomons  nodded. 

"  My  name,  sir,"  he  answered.  "  I  was  recommended 
here  by  our  mutual  friend,  Mocatta.  And  I  want  to  see 
some  diamond  necklets." 

The  proprietor  did  not  fall  into  the  smug-faced  young 
man's  juvenile  error.  He  knew  his  trade  too  well.  The 
two  fellow-tribesmen  had  measured  one  another  at  a  glance. 
He  brought  down  a  couple  of  cases  and  opened  them 
temptingly  before  Mr.  Solomons'  face.  Mr.  Solomons 
turned  them  over  with  critical  hand  and  eye. 

"  Not  good  enough,"  he  said  laconically,  and  the  pro- 
prietor nodded. 

"  How  are  these  ?  "  the  jeweler  asked,  striking  a  higher 
note,  three  octaves  up  on  the  gamut  of  price. 

Mr.  Solomons  regarded  them  with  a  shadow  on  his  face. 
He  knew  exactly  how  much  he  meant  to  give  (which  was 
just  why  he  refrained  from  mentioning  a  figure),  and  he 
thought  these  were  probably  far  above  his  intention.  In 
fact,  in  order  to  clarify  his  conceptions  and  bring  his  rusty 
knowledge  well  up  to  date,  he  had  already  priced  several 
small  lots  of  gems  that  very  morning  at  several  Christian 
jewelers'. 

•*  How  much  ?  "  he  asked  suspiciously.  For  he  had  come 
to  a  shop  of  his  own  race  for  the  express  reason  that  here 
only  could  he  indulge  in  the  luxury  of  bargaining. 

"  Four  hundred  pounds,"  the  proprietor  said,  looking 
hard  at  him  without  moving  a  muscle. 

Mr.  Solomons  shook  his  head  resolutely. 

"  More  than  I  want  to  give,"  he  replied  in  that  tone  of 
conviction  which  precludes  debate.  "  It  won't  do.  Show 
me  another." 

The  proprietor  gauged  the  just  mean  at  once, 


.-/    Th\4XSACT/0tV  ii^  DrA.\rox/)s. 


3«9 


"  Try  these,  then,"  he  said  persuasively. 

Mr.  Solomons'  eyes  picked  out  its  choice  at  a  glance. 

**  That'll  dt),"  he  answered,  selecting;  one  that  precisely 
suited  as  to  quality.     "  Lowest  figure  for  this  ?  " 

The  proprietor  glanced  at  him  with  inquiring  eyes. 

•*  What  do  you  want  it  for  ?  "  he  asked. 

'*  It's  for  a  lady  of  title,"  Mr.  Solomons  answered,  swell, 
ing  with  just  pride.     "  What'll  you  take  for  it  ?  " 

The  proprietor  put  his  head  on  one  side  reflectively. 

"We  have  a  fixed  price,  of  course,"  he  said. 

"  Of — course,"  Mr.  Solomons  echoed  slowly. 

"  But  to  you,  Mr.  Solomons,  as  a  friend  of  our  friend 
Mocatta's,  and  as  it's  for  a  present,  apparently,  we'll  con- 
sent to  make  it — three  hundred  guineas." 

"  Why  u>e  ?  "  Mr.  Solomons  inquired  abstractedly.  *•  I 
came  here  believing  I  dealt  between  man  and  man.  I 
object  to  iifg.     I  deal  with  principals." 

**  /'c/  make  it  three  hundred,  then,"  the  proprietor  cor- 
rected gravely. 

"Why  guineas  ?"  Mr.  Solomons  went  on  once  more  with 
chilly  precision.  "  No,  don't  say  pounds,  please.  That's 
why  I  ask  you,  Why  make  it  guineas.  You  put  it  in 
guineas  for  people  with  whom  you  mean  to  strike  off  the 
odd  shillings  only.  That  won't  do  for  me,  I'm  too  old  for 
that.  As  a  basis  for  negotiation,  if  you  please,  we'll  begin 
with  pounds.  Begin  with  pounds,  1  say,  Mr.  Zacharias  ; 
mind,  l^egin,  you  understand,  not  end  with  them." 

"  Begin  with  three  hundred  and  fifteen  pounds  ? "  the 
proprietor  queried,  with  his  small  eyes  blinking. 

"  Certainly,  if  you  wish  it,"  Mr.  Solomons  went  on. 
"  I've  no  objection  to  your  putting  on  the  extra  fifteen 
pounds — three  hundred  shillings  to  cover  the  guineas — if 
i^  gives  you  any  pleasure  ;  as,  of  course,  we  shall  only  have 
to  knock  them  off  at  once  again.     Well,  we  go  on,  then,  to 


t 


' 


i . 


390 


THE  SCAl,LYWAG, 


i 


three  hundred  pounds  for  this  necklet.  Now  Mr.  Zach* 
arias,  what  do  you  take  me  for  ?" 

And  then  began  that  shar[)  contest  of  wits  that  Mr.  Solo- 
mons  delighted  in,  and  in  wlncli  Mr.  Zacharias,  to  do  him 
justice,  was  no  unworthy  antagonist.  I'hc  two  men's  eyes 
gleamed  with  tlie  joy  of  the  conflict  as  they  joined  in  the 
fray.  It  was  to  them  what  a  game  of  chess  or  a  debate  in 
the  House  is  to  keen,  intellectual  combatants  of  another 
order.  They  understood  one  another  perfectly — too  per- 
fectly to  have  recourse  to  the  petty  blandishments  and 
transparent  deceptions  wherewith  Mr.  Zaciiarias  might 
have  attempted  to  cajole  an  accidental  purchaser.  It  was 
Greek  meet  Greek,  diamond  cut  diamond.  The  price  was 
to  be  settled,  not  in  current  coin  of  the  realm,  but  in  doubt- 
ful paper.  And  it  was  to  be  arrived  at  by  a  curious  pro- 
cess of  double-bargaining,  greatly  to  the  taste  of  either 
diplomatist.  Mr.  Solomons  was  first  to  bate  down  Mr. 
Zacharias  to  a  given  price,  say  a  hundred  and  fifty,  and  Mr. 
Zacharias  was  then  to  bate  down  the  doubtful  bills  till  he 
had  arrived..jat  last  at  a  proximate  equation  between  the  two 
sums  agreeable  to  both  parties.  And  to  this  congenial  con- 
test they  both  addressed  their  wits  in  high  good  humor, 
entering  into  it  with  the  zest  that  every  man  disp  ..ys  when 
pitted  against  a  foeman  just  worthy  of  his  steel,  in  a  sport 
at  which  both  are  acknowledged  masters. 

The  debate  was  long,  exciting,  and  varied.  But  in  the 
end  the  game  was  drawn,  each  side  coming  off  with  honor- 
able scars  and  insignificant  trophies.  Mr.  Solomons  cal- 
culated that  he  had  got  the  necklet  for  two  hundred  and 
forty-five  pounds'  worth  of  doubtful  paper,  and  that  it 
might  fairly  be  valued  at  two  hundred  and  fifty.  Mr. 
Zacharias  calculated  that  a  knowing  customer  might  have 
had  the  necklet  for  two  hundred  and  forty-two  pounds,  and 
that  the  doubtful  bills  would  probably  realize,  when  dis- 


M.V 


} 


A     /•A'.IXS.IC//0X  /X   /J/.l.\/i>V/)S. 


39» 


coiujlccl,  two  luiiulrcd  and  sixty.  So  each  Iffl  oil  well  satis- 
fied with  his  inoniiiig's  work,  besides  having  had  a  long 
hour's  good  intellectual  exerrisc  for  his  money. 

And  Mr.  Solomons  went  away  with  the  pleasing  convic- 
tion thai  if  Sir  Paul  Gascoyne,  for  example,  had  bought  the 
necklet  in  the  regular  way  at  a  West  Kud  jewelers',  he 
would  no  doubt  have  paid  that  cntt'rprising  tradesman  the 
original  three  hundred  guineas  demanded  for  it.  Of  so 
great  avail  is  it  to  a  wise  man  to  know  the  ('ity. 

By  an  odd  coincidence,  that  very  same  day  Paul,  for  his 
part,  received  three  letters,  all  tending  greatly  to  disconcert 
his  settled  policy.  The  first  two  came  by  the  morning  post, 
the  third  followed  by  the  eleven  o'clock  delivery.  Was  this 
design  or  accident?  Who  shall  say?  Fortune,  that  usually 
plays  us  such  scurvy  tricks,  now  and  again  indulges,  by  way 
of  change,  in  a  lucky  coincidence. 

The  first  of  his  letters  Paul  opened  was  from  Fowey, 
where  Nea  was  not.  It  was  brief  and  paternal — the  British 
father  in  his  favorite  character  of  practical  commonsense, 
enforcing  upon  giddy  and  sentimental  youth  the  business 
aspect  of  life  as  a  commercial  speculation.  Much  as  the 
Reverend  Walter  Blair,  Clerk  in  Holy  Orders,  esteemed 
the  prospective  honor  of  counting  Sir  Paul  Gascoyne, 
Baronet,  as  his  son-in-law,  he  must  point  out  to  Sir  Paul  at 
last  that  this  engagement  was  running  to  a  truly  prepos- 
terous length,  and  that  some  sort  of  effort  ought  to  be  made 
to  terminate  it.  **  Does  that  mean  break  it  off?"  Paul 
queried  internally,  with  a  horrid  start  of  alarm.  But  no  : 
the  next  sentence  reassured  his  startled  soul  as  to  that 
doubtful  verb.  The  Reverend  Walter  Blair  had  the  fullest 
confidence  in  his  young  friend's  ability  to  support  his  daugh- 
ter in  a  way  suitable  to  her  position  in  life,  and  would  urge, 
on  the  contrary,  that  the  marriage  should  be  entered  into — 
great  Heavens,  what  was  this  ? — on  the  earliest  opportunity  ! 


i| 


3yi 


77/A    SC.ti.i.YlVAG. 


If  not — the  Reverend  Waiter  IMair  was  conveniently  vas^ue 
ns  to  what  tniglit  follow  upon  his  non-coinpliancc  ;  but 
Paul's  heart  went  down  with  a  very  violent  sinking,  indeed, 
as  he  thought  how  much  that  paternal  rcliccnce  n)ight 
possibly  cover.  Vague  visions  of  Nea  wedded  against  her 
will  (oh,  boundless  imagination  of  youth  !)  to  a  mutton- 
faced  Cornish  squire  of  restricted  intelligence  oppressed  his 
soul.  As  though  anybody— even  a  society  mother— could 
marry  off  an  English  girl  of  Nea  Blair's  type  where  she 
didn't  wish  to  be  married  !  Why,  Mrs.  Partington  with  the 
ocean  at  her  doors  had  a  comparatively  wide  and  correct 
conception  of  character  and  conduct. 

He  broke  open  the  second  letter,  posted  at  Sheffield,  and 
skimmed  it  through  hurriedly.  To  his  immense  surprise  it 
pointed  in  precisely  the  same  direction  as  Mr.  Blair's. 
Since  Nea  had  been  with  her,  Faith  said,  in  her  simple  sis- 
terly fashion,  she  had  noticed  more  than  once  that  that 
dear  girl  was  growing  positively  thin  and  ill  with  the  har- 
assing care  of  a  long  engagement.  Nea  was  a  dear,  and 
would  never  complain ;  not  for  worlds  would  she  add  a  jot 
to  Paul's  heavy  burden  while  he  had  still  that  debt  of  Mr. 
Solomons' on  his  hands;  but  still,  Faith  thought,  "  it  was 
hard  she  should  be  wasting  her  golden  youth  when  she 
ought  to  be  hap|)y  and  enjoy  her  ladyship  while  it  would  be 
of  most  satisfaction  and  service  to  her."  And  since  Mr. 
Solomons  himself  approved  of  the  union,  as  Nea  told  her, 
why.  Faith,  for  her  part,  could  hardly  imagine  what  reasons 
could  induce  Paul  to  shilly-shally  any  longer.  "  And 
Charlie  say.s,"  the  letter  went  on,  **  he  fully  agrees  with  me." 

At  eleven  o'clock,  to  clench  it  all,  came  a  brief 'little 'note 
from  Nea  herself,  design  or  accident : 

"  Dear  Faith  has  been  declaring  to  me  for  the  last  two 
days,  Paul,  darling,  that's  its  positively  wicked  of  me  to 


*'  PUTTING  OX    TltF.    SCR/'.iyS. 


'C  •• 


JO.? 


keep  yuu  wauin^  and  dcspairin^^  any  longer  ;  and  this 
morniu};,  by  an  odd  coincidnicr,  the  inclosed  note  came 
from  papa.  Yon  will  see  from  it  that  he's  very  much  in 
earnest  indeed  about  the  mailer,  and  that  he  objccls  to  our 
enjjajiomcnt  remaining  so  long  indetniile.  So,  Paul,  they've 
easily  succeeded  between  them  at  last  in  talking  ine  over  ; 
and  if  you  think  as  they  do, 

•'  Yours  always, 

•'  Nea." 

Paul  laid  down  the  note,  and  reflected  seriously. 


CF^APTRR    XLVII. 


\\\ 


wo 
to 


"  PU  ITINO    ON    THK    SCREWS. 

The  combination  was  too  strong  in  the  end  for  Paul. 
Faith  and  Nea,  backed  up  by  Mr.  Solomons'  advice  and 
Mr.  Blair's  protest,  were  more  than  the  sternest  virtue 
could  resist — especially  when  inclination  itself  lay  disturb- 
ing the  balance  in  the  selfsame  scale.  Paul  wavered — and 
was  lost.  Before  he  knew  exactly  how  it  was  all  happening, 
he  found  himself  the  central,  though  secondary,  figure  of  a 
domestic  event.  He  was  given  to  understand  by  all  par- 
ties concerned  that  he  had  been  duly  selected  by  external 
destiny  for  the  post  of  bridegroom  in  a  forthcoming  wed- 
ding. 

And,  indeed,  if  he  continued  to  harbor  any  passing  doubts 
upon  the  subject  himself,  the  periodical  literature  of  his 
country  must  shortly  have  undeceived  him.  For,  happen- 
ing to  drop  in  at  his  club  the  next  Saturday  afternoon — as 
a  journalist,  Paul  had  regarded  the  luxury  of  membership  at 
the  Cheyne  Row  as  a  trade  expense --he  lighted  by  chance 
upon  a  paragraph  of  gossip  in  that  well-known  second-rate 


•I 

I 


'  i'l 


394 


TtfE  SCALLYWAG. 


society  paper,  the  Whisperer :  "  A  marriage  has  just  been 
arranged,  and  will  take  place  early  next  month,  between 
Sir  I'iiul  Gascoyne,  Bart.,  of  Hillborough,  and  Nea  Mary 
Kustacia,  only  daughter  of  the  Rev.  Walter  Blair,  Rector 
of  Lanhydran,  near  Fowey,  Cornwall.  Sir  Paul,  though  he 
rejoices  in  the  dignity  of  a  fourteenth  baronet,  and  boasts 
some  of  the  bluest  blood  in  Glamorganshire,  is  by  no  means 
overwhelmed  with  this  world's  wealth  ;  but  his  career  at 
Christ  Ch'.'.ich  was  sufficiently  distinguished,  and  he  has 
since  made  his  mark  more  generally  as  a  journalist  and 
essayist  in  the  London  Press.  Unless  he  throws  away  his 
opportunities  and  wastes  his  talents,  the  new  proprietor 
ought  to  do  much  in  time  to  restore  the  lost  glories  of 
Gascoyne  Manor." 

A  fiery  red  spot  burned  in  Paul's  cheek  as  he  laid  down  the 
indiscreet  sheet  with  its  annoying  blunders,  and  picked  up, 
for  a  change,  its  rivai,  the  Blaboi  a  week  later  date.  There, 
almost  the  first  words  that  met  his  eyes  were  those  that 
composed  his  own  name,  staring  him  in  the  face  in  that 
rudely  obtrusive  way  that  one's  own  name  always  does  stare 
at  one  from  a  printed  paper.  "  No,  no,  Arthur,"  the  editor 
of  the  Biab  remarked,  in  his  gently  colloquial  style  to  his 
brother  chronicler  ;  "  you're  out  of  it  this  time  about  young 
Gascoyne  of  Christ  Church.  Sir  Paul  Emery  Howard  Gas- 
coyne— to  give  him  the  full  benefit  of  his  empty  title,  for  it 
carries  no  money,  is  the  fifteenth — not,  as  you  say,  the 
fourteenth — baronet  of  that  ancient  family.  He  is  not  of 
Hillborough,  which  was  the  only  place  where  his  late  re- 
f.pected  papa  carried  on  a  harmless,  though  useful,  calling  ; 
but  of  a  decent  lodging-house  in  Somers  Row,  Gower  Street. 
He  has  nothing  to  do  in  any  way  with  Gascoyne  Manor, 
the  old  seat  of  his  ancestors,  which  is  the  property  of  a  dis- 
tant and  not  overfriendly  cousin.  And  if  you  mean  to 
insinuate  by  certain  stray  hints  about  wasted  opportunities 


''PUTTING  ON   THE  SCREWS. 


395 


ist  been 
between 
:a  Mary 

Rector 
DUgh  he 
1  boasts 
)  means 
ireer  at 

he  has 
list  and 
way  his 
^prietor 
Dries  of 

own  the 

ked  up, 

There, 

»se  that 

in  that 

es  stare 

i  editor 

to  his 

young 

rd  Gas- 

e,  for  it 

ay,  the 

not  of 

ate  re- 

alling  ; 

Street. 

Vlanor, 

f  a  dis- 

ean  to 

unities 


and  so  forth  and  so  forth  that  Miss  Blair,  his  future  wife,  has 
money  of  her  own,  allow  us  to  assure  you,  on  the  very  best 
authority,  that  the  lady's  face  is  her  fortune — and  a  very 
pretty  fortune,  too,  it  might  have  been,  if  she  hadn't  chosen 
to  throw  it  away  recklessly  on  a  penniless  younc^  journalist 
with  a  useless  baronetcy.  Hovever,  Sir  Paul  has  un- 
doubtedly youth  and  brains  on  his  side,  and,  if  you  don't 
succeed  in  spoiling  his  style,  will,  no  doubt,  manage  to  pull 
through  in  the  end  by  aid  of  a  pen  which  is  more  smart 
than  gentlemanly.  Give  him  a  post  on  your  staff  outright, 
dear  Arthur,  and  he'll  exactly  suit  the  requirements  of  the 
IVhispererr 

Paul  flung  down  the  paper  with  a  still  angrier  face.  But, 
v*hatever  else  he  felt,  one  thing  was  certain:  he  couldn't 
now  delay  getting  married  to  Nea. 

The  opinion  of  others  has  a  vast  effect  upon  even  the 
most  individualistic  among  us.  And  so  it  came  to  pass 
that  Taul  Gascoyne  was  dragged,  at  last,  half  against  his 
will,  into  marrying  Nea  within  the  month,  without  having 
ever  got  rid  of  his  underlying  feeling  that  to  do  so  was  cer- 
tainly foolish. and  almost  wicked. 

The  wedding  was  to  take  place  at  Lanhydran,  of  course; 
and  such  a  gathering  of  the  clans  from  all  parts  of  the 
world  the  little  Cornish  village  had  seldom  witnessed ! 
Charlie  Thistleton  and  Faith  were  at  Paddington  to  meet 
Paul  and  accompany  him  down.  While  the  Master  Cutler 
and  his  wife,  unable  to  avoid  this  further  chance  of  identi- 
fying themselves  with  the  Gascoyne  family,  were  to  follow 
in  their  wake  half  a  day  later.  Paul  was  delighted  to  find 
that  Faith,  whom  he  hadn't  seen  for  a  year,  had  changed 
less  than  he  expected,  and  far  less  than  he  feared.  She 
had  expanded  with  the  expansion  in  her  position,  to  be  sure, 
as  Mr.  Solomons  noted,  and  was  quite  at  home  in  her  sur- 
roundings.    Less  than  that  would  be  to  be  less  a  woman; 


I 


396 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


{■ 

%: 


but  she  retained  all  her  old  girlish  simplicity,  for  all  thai, 
and  she  was  quite  as  fiercely  herself  in  sentiment  as  ever. 

**  We'll  travel  first,  Faith,"  Charlie  Thistlcton  said  apolo- 
getically,  "  for  the  sake  of  getting  a  carriage  to  ourselves. 
I  know  you  and  Paul  will  want  to  have  a  little  family  confab 
together  after  not  seeing  one  another  so  long;  now,  won't 
you  ?  " 

**  Oh,  well,  if  you  put  it  on  that  ground,"  Faith  answered, 
mollified,  "  I  don't  mind  going  first  just  this  once,  to  please 
you.  Though  up  in  the  North  Country,  Paul.  I  always  in- 
sist upon  travelling  third  still,  just  to  scandalize  Charlie's 
grand  acquaintances.  When  they  ask  me  why,  I  always 
say,  *  Because  that's  what  I'm  accustomed  to;  I  never  could 
afford  to  go  second  before  I  was  married.'  And  you  should 
just  see  their  faces  when  I  add  quietly, '  Sir  Paul  and  1 
were  never  rich  enough  to  get  beyond  thirds;  and  I  sup- 
pose poor  Paul  will  have  to  go  third  as  long  as  he  lives,  for 
he  doesn't  mean,  like  me,  to  marry  above  him.* " 

"But  I  do,"  Paul  answered,  with  a  gentle  smile.  "  I  re- 
member, when  I  first  met  dear  Nea  at  Mentone,  what  an 
awful  swell  I  thought  her,  and  how  dreadfully  afraid  I  was 
even  of  talking  to  her." 

"Well,  run  and  get  the  tickets,  Charlie,"  Mrs.  Thistleton 
said,  turning  to  her  obedient  slave;  "and  if  by  any  chance 
Mrs.  Douglas  is  going  down  by  this  particular  train,  try  to 
keep  out  of  her  way;  for  I  want,  if  possible,  to  have  my 
brother  to  myself  for  the  last  time  this  one  long  journey." 

By  the  aid  of  half-a-crown,  judiciously  employed  in  con- 
travening the  company's  regulations  as  to  gratuities  to  por- 
ters, they  succeeded  in  maintaining  the  desired  privacy; 
and  Faith  could  gossip  to  her  heart's  content  with  Paul 
about  everything  that  had  happened  since  their  last  meet- 
ing. She  was  particularly  curious  to  know  about  Mr.  Solo- 
mons— his  ways  and  doings. 


. 


"  Pri  ri\G   ox    THE    SCREWSr 


.w 


"  I  always  thought,  do  you  know,  Paul,"  she  said,  "that, 
in  a  certain  sort  of  queer,  unacknowledged  way,  Mr.  Solo- 
mons had  an  undercurrent  of  sneaking  regard  for  you — 
a  personal  liking  for  you  and  a  pride  in  what  he's  made 
of  you.  I  don't  think  it  was  all  mere  desire  for  your 
money." 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  Paul  answered.  "  I've  a  great 
regard  for  Mr.  Solomons  myself.  I'm  sure  it's  to  him 
entirely  I  owe  my  present  position,  such  as  it  is.  And  I 
believe  he  honestly  desired,  in  his  way,  to  serve  me.  The 
idea  of  the  baronetcy  going  to  waste,  as  a  marketable  com- 
modity, first  weighed  upon  his  mind,  of  course.  Whether 
it  was  his  own,  or  whether  it  was  somebody  else's,  it  vexed 
his  good  commercial  soul  to  see  so  much  intrinsic  value 
running  away,  as  it  were,  like  beer  from  a  barrel,  all  for 
nothing.  But  when  once  he  got  fairly  embarked  in  the 
scheme,  it  became  an  end  in  itself  to  him — his  favorite  idea, 
his  pet  investment  ;  and  I  was  a  part  of  it  :  he  liked  me 
because  he  had  made  me  himself.  It  gave  him  importance 
in  his  own  eyes  to  be  mixed  up  with  the  family  of  an  Eng- 
lish baronet." 

"  Oh,  I'm  sure  he  likes  all  your  family  personally," 
Charlie  Thistleton  put  in,  in  spite  of  a  warning  look  from 
his  wife.  "  You  should  hear  the  way  he  writes  to  Faith 
about  you  !  " 

"  Writes  to  Faith  ! "  Paul  repeated,  surprised. 

"  Well,  yes,"  Charlie  answered,  pulling  himself  up  short 
with  the  contrite  air  of  the  husband  who  knows  he  has 
exceeded  his  wife's  instructions.  **  He  wrote  a  letter  to 
Faith  about  you  once — some  months  ago  ;  and  he  said  he 
was  proud  of  the  position  you  were  making  for  yourself  in 
literary  London,  He  also  remarked  you  were  paying  up 
arrears  with  pleasing  promptitude." 

**  It's  curious  he  makes  you  go  on  paying,  and  grinding 


!l 


1 


39« 


THE   SC.tlJ.  VH'AG. 


you  SO  hard,"  Faith  mused  meditatively,  •'  when  he's  got 
nobody  left  on  earth  now  to  grind  you  for." 

"  It's  habit  !  "  Paul  answered.  "  Mere  ingrained  habit. 
He  grinds  by  instinct.  And  he  likes  to  feel,  too,  that  I'm 
able  to  pay  him.  He  likes  to  think  his  money  wasn't 
wasted  or  his  confidence  misplaced.  Though  he  considers 
me  a  fool  for  not  marrying  an  heiress,  he  considers,  too,  it 
proves  his  own  sagacity  that  he  should  have  known  I'd 
leave  no  stone  unturned  till  I'd  honestly  repaid  him." 

"  It's  a  great  pity,"  Charlie  Thistleton  interposed,  look- 
ing out  of  the  window  and  delivering  himself  slowly  of  an 
abstract  opinion  Apropos  of  nothing  in  particular,  "  that 
some  people  are  so  devilish  proud  as  they  are.  They'd 
rather  toil  and  slave  and  worry  themselves  for  a  lifetime, 
than  accept  a  few  paltry  unimportant  hundreds  from  their 
friends  and  relations." 

"  O  Charlie  !  he  couldn't !  "  Faith  ci  ied,  flushing  up. 
"  He  wouldn't  be  Paul  at  all  if  he  did  that.  I  know  we'd 
all  love  to  help  him  if  it  was  possible.  But  it  isn't  possible. 
Anybody  who  knows  him  knows  he'll  never  be  satisfied  till 
he's  worked  it  all  off  and  paid  it  himself.  Mr.  Solomons 
knows  it  ;  and  perhaps  that's  why  he's  so  hard  upon  him, 
even.  He  wants  to  give  him  a  spur  and  a  stimulus  to 
work,  so  that  he  may  get  it  all  paid  off  as  soon  as  possible, 
and  be  free  to  do  better  things  in  the  end  for  himself  and 
Nea." 

"My  dear  child,"  Charlie  put  in,  "you're  really  too 
trustful." 

"  Well,  anyhow,  he  wants  Paul  to  marry  Nea,  now," 
Faith  said,  relapsing  into  her  corner. 

"  Because  he  thinks  I'll  work  better  when  it's  all  settled," 
Paul  retorted,  half  undecided  himself  which  side  to  take. 
"  There's  no  doubt  about  it.  Faith,  he's  grown  harder  and 
more  money-grubbing  than  ever,  since  Lionel  Solomons 


''  PUl  TING  OX    THE    S CUE H \S. " 


399 


died.  He  reckons  every  farthing  and  grumbles  over  every 
delay.  I  suppose  it's  because  he's  got  nothing  else  left  to 
live  for  now.  But  he  certainly  grinds  me  very  hard  indeed, 
and  wants  more  every  time,  as  if  he  was  afraid  he'd  never 
live  to  get  back  his  money." 

"  Ah,  that's  it,  you  see*!  "  Faith  answered.  *'  That's  just 
the  explanation.  While  that  horrid  boy  was  alive,  he  ex- 
pected to  leave  his  money  to  him  ;  and  if  Mr.  Solomons 
himself  didn't  get  the  return,  Lionel  would  have  got  it. 
But  now  he  must  have  it  all  repaid  in  his  own  lifetime,  or 
it'll  be  no  use  to  him.  What  does  it  matter  to  him,  after 
all,  whether  the  Jewish  Widows  and  Orphans  have  a  hun- 
dred or  a  thousand  more  or  less  ?  It's  only  the  pursuit  of 
money  for  its  own  sake  that's  left  him  now.  He  goes  on 
with  that  by  mere  use  and  custom. 

All  the  way  down  to  Cornwall,  in  fact,  they  discussed 
this  important  matter,  and  others  of  more  pressing  and  im- 
mediate interest  ;  and  all  the  way  down  Faith  noticed  that 
Paul  was  going  to  his  wedding  with  many  grave  doubts 
and  misgivings  on  his  mind  as  to  whether  or  not  he  was 
right  at  all  in  marrying  under  such  circumstances.  It's 
hard  for  a  man  to  start  on  his  honeymoon  with  a  mill- 
stone round  his  neck  ;  and  Faith  cordially  pitied  him. 
Yet,  none  the  less,  she  was  characteristically  proud  of  him 
for  that  very  feeling.  Paul  would  have  been  less  of  a  Gas- 
coyne,  she  felt,  if  he  could  have  accepted  aid  or  help  in 
such  a  strait  from  any  man.  He  had  made  his  own  maze, 
no  matter  how  long  since,  and  now  he  must  puzzle  his  own 
way  out  of  it. 

At  Fowey  station  a  strange  surprise  awaited  them.  They 
got  out  of  their  carriage,  and  saw  on  the  platform  a  fa- 
miliar figure  which  quite  took  Faith's  breath  away. 

'*  Mr.  Solomons  !  "she  exclaimed  in  astonishment.  "You 
here  !    This  is,  indeed  "-^she  was  just  going  to  say  "  an 


fi 


•m 


\\f'' 


■I 


400 


r//£   SCALLYH'AG. 


unexpected  pleasure  " — but  native  truthfulness  came  to  her 
aid  in  time,  and  she  substituted  instead  the  very  non-com- 
mittal word  "  wonderful ! " 

Mr.  Solomons,  somewhat  bluer  in  the  face  than  was  his 
wont,  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height  of  five  feet  five  as 
he  extended  his  hand  to  her  with  a  cordial  welcome.  He 
had  never  looked  so  blooming  before  since  poor  Leo's 
death.  Nor  had  Faith  ever  seen  him  so  closely  resemble  a 
well-to-do  solicitor.  He  had  spared  no  pains  or  expense, 
indeed,  on  his  sartorial  get-up.  All  that  the  tailor's  art 
and  skill  could  do  had  been  duly  done  for  him.  He  was 
faultlessly  attired  in  positively  neat  and  gentlemanly  clothes; 
for  he  had  put  himself  implicitly  in  the  hands  of  a  good  West 
End  house  ;  and,  distrusting  his  own  taste  and  that  of  his 
race,  had  asked  to  be  dressed  from  head  to  foot  in  a  style 
suitable  for  a  baronet's  wedding  party.  The  result  was 
really  and  truly  surprising.  Mr.  Solomons,  with  a  flower 
in  his  buttonhole  and  a  quiet  tie  round  his  neck,  looked 
positively  almost  like  a  Jewish  gentleman. 

"Well,  yes,  Mrs.  Thistleton,"  the  old  money-lender  said, 
with  a  deep-blue  blush.  "  I  fancied  you'd  be  rather  taken 
aback  when  you  saw  me.  It  isn't  every  day  that  I  get  an 
invitation  to  a  wedding  in  high  life  ;  but  Miss  Blair  was 
kind  enough  to  send  me  a  card  ;  and  I  thought,  as  I  was 
one  of  Sir  Paul's  oldest  and  earliest  friends,  I  could  hardly 
let  the  occasion  pass  without  properly  honoring  it.  So 
I've  taken  rooms  by  telegraph  at  the  hotel  in  the  town  ; 
and  I  hope  to  see  you  all  by  and  by  at  the  church  on 
Thursday." 

The  apparition  was  hardly  a  pleasant  one  for  Paul.  If 
the  truth  must  be  confessed,  he  would  have  liked,  if  possi- 
jle,  on  that  one  day  in  his  life,  if  never  before  or  after,  to 
be  free  from  the  very  shc\dow  of  Mr.  Solomons'  presence. 
But  Nea  had  no  doubt  good  reasons  of  her  own  for  asking 


il' 


Am.  soioAfoxs  co.vF.s  orr. 


\o\ 


him — Nea  was  always  right — and  so  I'aiil  grasped  his  old 
visitor's  hand  as  warmly  as  he  could,  as  he  muttered  in  a 
somewhat  choky  and  dubious  voice  a  half  inarticulate 
"  Thank  you." 

CIHATTRR    XLVIII. 

MR.    SOLOMONS   COMES    OUT. 


The  wedding-day  came,  and  the  gathering  of  the  clans 
at  Lanhydran  church  was  indeed  c(Mispicuous.  Mrs. 
Douglas  was  there  from  Oxford  (with  the  Accadian  Pro- 
fessor well  in  tow)  discoursing  amicably  to  Faith  of  the 
transcendent  merits  of  blue  blood,  and  of  how  perfectly 
certain  she  was  that,  sooner  or  later,  Paul  would  take  his 
proper  place  in  Parliament,  and  astonish  the  world  with 
some  magnificent  scheme  for  Imperial  Federation,  or  for 
the  Total  Abolition  of  Poverty  and  Crime  in  (ireat  Britain 
and  Ireland.  The  Thistletons  senior  were  there  looking 
bland  and  impressive,  with  the  consciousness  of  having 
given  the  briie  as  handsome  a  present  as  anybody  else  in 
all  the  wedding  party  was  likely  to  bestow  upon  her.  Half 
a  dozen  of  Paul's  undergraduate  friends  or  London  ac- 
quaintances had  come  down  to  grace  the  ceremony  by  their 
august  presence,  or  to  make  copy  for  society  papers  out  of 
the  two  young  people's  domestic  felicity.  The  county  of 
Cornwall  was  there  in  full  force  to  see  a  pretty  Cornish  girl 
recruit  the  ranks  of  metropolitan  aristocracy.  And  Mr. 
Solomons  was  there,  with  hardly  a  trace  of  that  cold,  hard 
manner  left  upon  his  face,  and  his  fingers  finding  their  way 
with  a  fumbling  twitch  every  now  and  again  to  his  right 
coat-tail  pocket,  which  evidently  contained  some  unknown 
object  to  whose  continued  safety  Mr.  Solomons  attached 
immense,  and,  indeed,  overwhelming  importance. 


ffi!r*l 


!    ' 


1 

• 

• 

402 

1 

THE 

.sy; 

//./  r //'./<-; 

As 

for 

Nen, 

she 

looked 

as 

charming 

as 

cver- 

-as 

charm- 

t.  / 


Iri;;: 


ing,  Paul  thought,  as  on  that  very  first  day  when  he  had 
seen  her  and  fallen  in  love  with  her  on  the  promenade  at 
Mentonc.  And  when  at  last  in  the  vestry,  after  all  was 
over,  he  was  able  to  print  one  kiss  on  her  smooth  while 
forehead,  and  to  say  *'  my  wife"  in  real  earnest,  he  forgot 
for  the  moment  all  other  thoughts  in  the  joy  of  that  name, 
and  felt  as  though  Mr.  Solomons  and  his  hapless  claims  had 
never  existed. 

Mr.  Solomons  himself,  however,  was  by  no  means  dis- 
posed  to  let  the  opportunity  pass  by  so  easily.  As  soon  as 
everybody  had  signed  the  book  and  claimed  their  customary 
kiss  from  the  bride,  Mr.  Solomons  too  pressed  forward  with 
a  certain  manifest  eagerness  on  his  impulsive  countenance. 
He  took  Nea's  two  hands  in  his  own  with  a  fatherly  air, 
and  clasped  them  tight  for  a  moment,  quite  tremulous  with 
emotion.  Nea  held  up  her  blushing  cheek  timidly.  Mr. 
Solomons  drew  back.  A  maiden  fear  oppressed  his  soul. 
This  was  too  much  honor.  He  had  never  expected  it. 
"  Dare  I,  my  lady?  "he  asked  in  a  faltering  voice.  He 
was  the  first  who  had  called  her  so.  Nea  replied  with  a 
smile  and  a  deeper  blush.  Mr.  Solomons  leant  forward 
with  instinctive  courtesy,  and  bending  his  head,  just 
touched  with  the  tips  of  his  pursed-up  lips  that  dainty  small 
hand  of  hers.  It  was  the  greatest  triumph  of  his  life — a 
reward  for  that  doubtful  and  dangerous  long  investment. 
That  he  should  live  to  kiss  with  his  own  two  lips  the  hand 
of  the  lady  of  an  English  baronet. 

As  he  rose  again,  blushing  bluer  in  the  face  than  ever,  he 
drew  from  his  pocket  a  large  morocco  case,  and  taking  out 
of  it  a  necklet  of  diamonds  set  in  gold,  he  hung  them 
gracefully  enough  round  Nea's  neck  with  an  unobtrusive 
movement.  A  chorus  of  admiring  "  Ohs  !  "  went  up  all 
round  from  the  circling  group  of  women,    Mr.  Solomons; 


MR.  so/.OA/oxs  co.\f/:s  our. 


403 


,  he 
out 
hem 
sive 
>  all 
"ons 


had  loosed  his  little  I  )lt  neatly.  He  had  chosen  the  txact 
right  moment  for  presenting  his  wedding  gift.  I'-ven  old  Mr. 
Thistleton,  complacent  and  urbane,  was  taken  aback  by  the 
shimmering  glitter  of  the  pretty  baid)les,  and  reflected  with 
some  chagrin  that  his  own  set  of  massive  silver  dessert-dishes 
was  thrown  (juite  into  the  shade  now  by  Mr.  Solomons' 
diamonds. 

Paul  was  the  only  person  who  failed  to  appreciate  the 
magnificence  of  the  present.  He  saw,  indeed,  with  surprise 
that  Mr.  Solomons  had  presented  Nea  with  a  very  pretty 
necklet.  But  beyond  that  vague  feeling  he  realized  noth- 
ing. He  was  too  simply  a  man  to  attach  much  importance 
to  those  useless  gewgaws. 

The  breakfast  followed,  with  its  usual  accompaniments 
of  champagne  and  speeches.  The  ordinary  extraordinary 
virtues  were  discovered  in  the  bridegroom,  and  the  invaria- 
bly exceptional  beauty  and  sweetness  of  the  bride  met  with 
their  due  meed  of  extravagant  praise.  Nothing  could  be 
more  satisfactory  than  everyone's  opinion  of  everyone  else. 
All  the  world  had  always  known  that  Sir  Paul  would  attain 
in  the  end  to  the  highest  honors  literature  could  hold  out 
to  her  ambitious  aspirants — perhaps  even  to  the  editorship 
of  the  Times  newspaper.  All  the  world  had  always  con- 
sidered that  Lady  Gascoyne — how  Nea  sat  there  blushing 
and  tingling  with  delight  as  she  heard  that  long-expected 
title  now  really  and  truly  at  last  bestowed  upon  her — 
deserved  exactly  such  a  paragon  of  virtue,  learning,  and 
talent  as  the  man  who  had  that  day  led  her  to  the  altar. 
Everybody  said  very  nice  things  about  the  bridesmaids  and 
their  probable  fate  in  the  near  future.  Everybody  was 
polite,  and  appreciative,  and  eulogistic,  so  that  all  the 
world  seemed  converted  for  the  moment  into  a  sort  of  pri- 
vate Lanhydran  Mutual  Admiration  Society,  Limited,  and 
believed  as  such,  with  unblushing  confidence. 


404 


THE    SCAl.l  Vn'AG. 


■• 


At  last,  Mr.  Solomons  essayed  to  spenk.  It  was  in 
answer  to  some  wholly  nnimportant  toast  ;  aiui  as  he  rose 
he  really  looked  even  more  like  a  gentleman,  I'.iiih  thought 
to  herself,  than  at  the  station  last  evening,  lie  put  his 
hand  upon  the  table  to  steady  himself,  and  gazed  long  at 
Paul.  Then  he  cleared  his  throat  and  began  nervously,  in 
a  low  tone  that  was  «*trangely  unfamiliar  to  him.  lie  said 
a  few  words,  not  without  a  ccrtam  simple  digiiiiy  of  their 
own,  about  the  immediate  subject  to  which  he  was  sup- 
posed to  devote  his  oratorical  powers  ;  but  in  the  course  of 
half  a  minute  he  had  wandered  round  to  the  bridegroom, 
as  is  the  oblique  fashion  with  most  amateur  speakers  on 
these  trying  occasions.  •*  I  have  known  Sir  Paul  Gas- 
coyne,"  he  said,  and  T'aith,  watching  him  hard,  saw  with 
surprise  that  tears  stood  in  his  eyes,  "ever  since  his  head 
wouldn't  have  shown  above  this  table."  lie  paused  a  .sec- 
ond, and  glanced  once  more  at  Paul.  *'  I've  always  known 
him,"  he  continued,  in  a  very  shaky  voice,  "  for  what  he  is 
— a  gentleman.  There's  no  truer  man  than  Sir  Paul  Gas- 
coyne  in  all  England.  Once  I  had  a  boy  of  my  own — a 
nephew — but  my  own — I  loved  him  dearly."  He  paused 
once  more,  and  struggled  with  his  emotion.  "  Now,  I've 
nobody  left  me  but  Sir  Paul,"  he  went  on,  his  eyes  swim- 
ming, "  and  I  love  Sir  Paul  as  I  never  could  have  loved  any 
— any — any " 

Faith  rose  and  caught  him.  Mr.  Solomons  was  bluer  in 
the  face  now  than  ever  before.  He  gasped  for  breath,  he 
staggered  as  he  spoke,  and  accepted  Faith's  arm  with  a 
quiet  gratitude. 

"  Dear  Mr.  Solomoi..*?,"  Faith  said,  supporting  him,  **you'd 
better  sit  down  now,  at  once — hadn't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  dear,"  Mr.  Solomons  cried,  bursting  all  of 
a  sudden  into  hasty  tears,  more  eloquent  than  his  words, 
and  subsiding  slowly.     "  I've  always  said,  and  I  shall  always 


AfK.  soroMOJvs  co\r/:s  ocr. 


405 


say,  that  your  brother  Paul's  the  very  best  young  fellow  111 
alt   i^tiglaiid." 

And  he  sank  into  his  seal. 

Have  you  ever  noticed  that  after  all's  over,  the  bride  and 
l)ri(h'};roonj,  beconiinj^  suddenly  conscious  that  they're  ter- 
ribly faint,  and  have  eaten  and  drunk  nothni;;  themselves 
uwinj^  to  the  tenii)esi  and  whiilwinil  of  conj;ratulations, 
invariably  retire  in  the  end  to  the  deserteil  dininj;  room, 
with  three  or  four  intimate  friends,  for  a  biscuit  and  a  ^la**** 
of  claret  ?  In  that  position  Paul  and  Nea  fomul  thenjselves 
half  an  hour  later,  with  Faith  and  Thisileton  to  keep  them 
company. 

•'But  what  does  this  all  mean  about  Mr.  Solomons?" 
Faith  inquired  in  an  undertone,  '*  Did  you  ever  see  any- 
thing so  (pieer  and  mysterious  as  his  behavior  ?" 

"  Why,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  I'aul  answered.  **  I  saw 
noLl^ing  very  odd  in  it.  He's  always  known  me,  of  course, 
and  he  was  naturally  pleased  to  see  me  so  well  married." 

'•  Well,  hut  Paul,  dear,"  Faith  exclaimed  impressively, 
•'  just  think  c(  the  necklet  !  " 

" 'I'he  necklet  I  "  Paul  answered  in  a  careless  tone.  *•  Oh, 
yes,  tilt  necklet  was  very  pretty." 

"  Hut  what  did  he  mean  by  giving  it  to  her  ?  "  Faith 
asked  once  more  in  an  e.\cited  whimper.  "  I  think,  myself, 
it's  awfully  symptomatic," 

"  Symptomatic  ?  "   Paid  echoed  inquiringly. 

"Why,  yes,"  Faith  repeated.  "Sympathetic,  of  course. 
Such  a  lovely  present  as  that!  What  on  earth  else  could 
he  possibly  give  it  to  her  for  ? " 

**  Everybody  who  comes  to  a  wedding  gives  the  bride  a 
present,  don't  they  ? "  Paul  asked,  a  little  mystified.  *'  I 
always  thought,  after  we  met  him  at  Fowey  Scation,  Mr, 
Solomons  would  give  a  present  to  Nea,  He's  the  sort  of 
man  who    likes    things    done     decently    and    in   order. 


4o6 


TtfF.   SCALLYWAG. 


I 


He'd  make  a  puiiit  of  givintr  tithe  of  mint,  uiuiir,  and 
cummin." 

*•  Mint,  anise,  and  cumniin  !  "  Kaith  retorted  contemptu- 
ously. "Why,  what  do  you  think  thai  necklet  would  cost, 
you  stupid  ?  " 

**  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  Paul  answered  ;  "five  pounds 
I  suppose,  or  something;  of  that  sort." 

"  Five  pounds  !  "  the  two  women  repeated  in  concert, 
with  a  burst  of  amusement. 

"  Why,  Paul  dear,"  Nea  went  on,  taking  it  off  and  hand- 
ing it  to  him, ''that  necklet  must  have  cost  at  least  three 
hundred  guineas  the  set — at  least  three  hundred  !  " 

Paul  turned  it  over  dubiously,  with  an  awe-struck  air. 
'  Are  you  sure,  Nea  ?  "  he  asked  incredulously. 

••Quite  sure,  dear,"  Nea  answered.  "And  so's  Faith; 
aren't  you,  Faith  ?  " 

Faith  nodded  acquiescence. 

'•  Well,  all  I  can  say,"  Paul  replied,  examining  the  thing 
closely  with  astonished  eyes,  "  is — it  doesn't  look  worth  it." 

•'Oh,  yes,"  Faith  put  in,  admiring  it,  all  enthusiasm. 
"  Why,  they're  just  lovely,  Paul.  It's  the  most  beautiful 
necklet  I  ever  saw  anywhere." 

"  But  what  did  he  do  it  for  ?"  Paul  asked  in  a  maze.  It 
was  his  turn  now  to  seek  in  vain  for  some   hidden   motive. 

"  Ah,  that's  the  question,"  Charlie  Thistleton  continued 
with  a  blank  stare.  '•  I  suppose  he  thought  Lady  Gascoyne 
ought  to  have  jewels  woithy  of  her  position." 

"  I  don't  know,"  Paul  went  on,  drawing  his  hand  across 
his  brow  with  a  puzzled  air.  "  If  it's  worth  what  you  say, 
it's  one  of  the  strangest  things  I  ever  heard.  Three  hun- 
dred pounds  !  Why,  that'd  be  a  lot  of  money  for  anybody 
to  spend  upon  it." 

To  say  the  truth,  he  looked  at  the  diamonds  a  trifle  rue- 
fully.    In  the  first  flush  of  surprise  he  almost  wondered 


MR.    SOLOAfOXS  CO.\fKS  OCT. 


407 


whether,  when  he  next  called  round  at  the  High  Street, 
Hillb()r<)uy;h,  Mr,  Solomons  would  want  him  to  sij^u  aiioliier 
hond  for  the  thicf  hiiiulred  pounds,  with  interest  at  twenty 
per  cent,  per  annum,  for  jewelry  supplied  for  I-ady  (las. 
Coyne's  wedilinjf. 

At  that  moment  a  flutter  in  the  coterie  disturbed  him. 
He  roused  himself  from  his  reverie  to  see  Mr.  Solomons 
gazing  in  at  the  0|)en  door,  and  evidently  pleased  at  the 
attention  the  party  was  bestowing  upon  his  treasured  dia- 
monds. 

Nea  looked  up  at  him  with  that  sunny  smile  of  hers. 

•'  We're  all  admiring  your  lovely  present,  Mr.  Solomons," 
she  said,  dangling  it  once  more  before  liim. 

Mr.  Solomons  came  in,  still  very  blue  in  the  face,  and 
took  her  two  hands  affectionately  in  his,  as  he  had  done  in 
the  vestry. 

••  My  dear,"  he  said,  gazing  at  her  with  a  certain  paternal 
pride,  •*  when  I  first  knew  Sir  Paul  was  going  to  marry  you, 
or  was  thinking  of  marrying  you,  1  won't  pretend  to  dctiy 
that  I  was  very  much  «lisappointed.  I  thought  lie  ought 
to  have  looked  elsewhere  for  money — money.  I  wanted 
him  to  marry  a  woman  of  wealth.  My  dear,  I  was  wrong 
— I  was  quite  wrong.  Sir  Paul  was  a  great  deal  wiser 
in  his  generation  than  I  was.  He  knew  something  that 
was  better  far  than  money."  He  drew  a  deep  sigh.  '*  I 
could  wish,"  he  went  on,  holding  her  hands  tight,  '*  that 
all  those  I  loved  had  been  as  wise  as  he  is.  Since  I 
saw  you,  my  dear,  I've  appreciated  his  motives.  I  won't 
say  I'm  not  disappointed  now — to  say  merely  that  would  be 
poor  politeness — I'm   happy  and   proud  at  the  choice  he's 

made — I,  who  am— perhaps well,  there — your  husband's 

oldest  and  nearest  friend  at  Hillborough," 

He  gazed  across  at  her  once  more,  tenderly,  gently. 
Paul  was  surprised  to  find  the  old  man  had  so  much  chivalry 


i 


V    ^ 


M 


i' 


ir; 


408 


r/z/r  scAr.i.yir/,(;. 


left  in  him  still.  Then  he  leaned  forward  yet  a  second 
time  and  kissed  her  white  little  hand  with  old-fashioned 
courtesy, 

'*  Good-by,  my  dear,"  he  said,  pressing  it.  "  Good-by, 
Sir  Paul  ;  I've  a  train  to  catch,  for  I've  business  in  Lon- 
don — important  business  in  London — and  I  thought  I'd 
better  go  up  by  the  train  before  the  one  you  and  Lady  Gas- 
coyne  have  chosen.  But  I  wanted  to  say  good-by  to  you 
both  quietly  in  here  before  I  went.  My  child,  this  is  the 
proudest  day  I  ever  remember.  I've  mixed  on  equal  terms 
with  the  gentlefolk  of  England.  I'm  not  unmindful  of  all 
the  kindness  and  sympathy  you've  all  extended  this  morn- 
ing to  an  old  Jew  money-lender.  My  own  have  never  been 
to  me  as  you  and  Paul  have  been  to-day."  He  burst, into 
tears  again.  "  From  my  heart,  I  thank  you,  my  dear,"  he 
cried  out,  faltering  ;  "  from  my  poor  old,  worn-out,  broken- 
down  heart,  ten  thousand  times  I  thank  you." 

And  before  Paul  in  his  amazement  could  blurt  out  a 
single  word  in  reply  he  had  kissed  her  hand  again  with  hot 
tears  falling  on  it,  and  glided  fr  )m  the  door  toward  the 
front  entry.  Next  minute  he  was  w.?lking  down  the  garden- 
path  to  the  gate,  erect  and  sturdy,  but  crying  silently  to 
himself  as  he  had  n^^jver  critd  in  his  I'fe  before  since  Lionel 
betrayed  him. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 


TO    PARIS    AND    BACK,  SIXTY    SHILLINGS. 


A  journalist's  holiday  is  always  short.  Paul  had 
arranged  for  a  fortnight  away  from  London — he  could 
afford  no  more — and  to  that  brief  span  he  had  to  cut  down 
his  honeym  )on.     But  he  was  happy  now  in  his  full  posses- 


^  \\ 


TO  PA  A' IS  AND  BACK,    SIXTY  SHILLINGS. 


409 


sion  of  Nea — too  happy,  indeed,  when  all  was  irrevocably 
done,  even  to  think  of  the  shadow  of  those  outlying 
claims  that  still  remained  unsatisfied  in  the  safe  at  Hill- 
borough. 

in  a  fortnight  a  man  can't  go  very  far.  So  Paul  was 
content  to  take  his  bride  across  to  Paris.  On  their  way 
back  he  meant  to  stop  for  a  couple  of  nights  at  Hillborough, 
where  he  could  do  his  work  as  well  as  in  town,  so  that  Nea 
might  make  his  mother's  acquaintance.  For  Mrs.  Gas- 
coyne  had  wisely  refused  to  be  present  at  the  wedding. 
She  preferred,  she  said,  to  know  Paul's  wife  more  quietly 
afterward,  when  Nea  could  take  her  as  she  was,  and  learn 
her  for  herself,  without  feeling  ashamed  of  her  before  her 
fine  relations. 

It  was  late  autumn,  and  the  town  was  delightful.  To 
both  Paul  and  Nea,  Paris  was  equally  new  ground,  and 
they  reveled,  as  young  people  will,  before  they  know  any 
better  in  the  tawdry  delights  of  that  meretricious  capital. 
Don't  let  us  blame  them,  we  who  are  older  and  wiser  and 
have  found  out  Paris.  At  their  age,  remember,  we,  too, 
admired  its  glitter  and  its  din  ;  we,  too,  were  taken  in  by 
its  cheap  impressiveness  ;  and  we,  too,  had  not  risen  above 
the  commcMi  vulgarities  of  the  boulevards  and  the  Bois  and 
the  Champs  Elys^es.  We  found  in  the  Frangais  that  odious 
form  of  entertainment-r-"  an  intellectual  treat";  and  we 
really  believed  in  the  Haussmannesque  monstrosities  that 
adorn  its  streets  as  constituting  what  we  called,  in  the  gib- 
berish of  our  heyday,  "a  very  fine  city."  If  we  know 
better  now — if  we  understand  that  a  Devonshire  lane  is 
worth  ten  thousand  Palais  Royals,  and  a  talk  under  the 
trees  with  a  pretty  girl  is  sweeter  than  all  the  tents  of  in- 
iquity— let  us,  at  least,  refrain  from  flaunting  our  m,re 
excellent  way  before  the  eyes  of  a  giddy  Philistine  world, 
and  let  us  pardon  to  youth,  in  the  flush  of  its  honeymoon, 


t;     -11 


^1 


I  tl 


410 


THE   SCALLYWAG, 


a  too  ardent  attachment  to  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  and 
the  Magasins  du  Louvre. 

Yet,  oh,  those  Magasins  du  Louvre  !  How  many  heart- 
burns they  caused  poor  Paul  !  And  with  what  unconscious 
cruelty  did  Nea  drag  him  through  the  endless  corridors  of 
the  13on  Marche  on  the  other  side  of  the  water  ! 

"  What  a  lovely  silk  !  Oh,  what  exquisite  gloves  !  And 
how  charming  that  chair  would  look,  Paul,  woukln't  it,  in 
our  drawing  room  in  London,  whenever  we  get  one?" 

Ah,  yes,  whenever  !  For  Paul  now  began  to  feel,  as  he 
had  never  felt  in  his  life  before,  the  sting  of  poverty.  How 
he  longed  to  give  Nea  all  these  beautiful  gewgaws:  anr' 
how  impossible  he  knew  it !  If  only  Nea  could  \  ,<: 
realized  that  the  pang  she  gave  him  each  time  she  admired 
those  pretty  frock*-  and  those  delightful  hats  and  those 
exquisite  things  in  Persian  or  Indian  carpets.  Fhe  would 
have  cut  out  her  own  tongue  before  she  mentioned  them. 
For  it  was  to  be  their  fate  for  the  present  to  live  in  lodg- 
ings in  London  till  that  greedy  Mr.  Solomons  was  finally 
appeased,  and  even  then  they  would  have  to  save  up  for 
months  and  months  before  they  were  in  a  position  to  fur- 
nish their  humble  cottage,  not  with  Persian  rugs  ?  id  carved 
oak  chairs,  but  with  plain  Kidderminster  and  a  good  deal 
suite  from  the  extensive  show-rooms  of  the  Tottenham 
Court  Road  cabinetmaker. 

Revolving  these  things  in  his  mind,  on  the  day  before 
their  return  to  dear  foggy  old  England,  Paul  was  strolling 
with  Nea  down  the  Champs  Elysees,  and  thinking  about 
nothing  else  in  particular,  when,  suddenly,  a  bow  and  a 
smile  from  his  wife,  delivered  toward  a  fiacre  that  rolled 
along  in  the  direction  of  the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  distracted 
his  attention  from  his  internal  emotions  to  the  mundane 
show  then  passing  before  him.  He  turned  and  looked.  A 
lady  in  the  fiacre,   remarkably  well-dressed,  and  pretty 


And 
it,  in 


aiu' 


kfore 
)lling 
ibout 
Ind  a 
lolled 
icted 
Idane 
A 
Iretty 


■il 


TO   PARIS  AND   HACK,    SIXTY  S/r/IJJXGS.        4>I 

enough  as  forty-five  goes,  returned  the  bow  and  smile,  and 
vainly  tried  to  stop  the  cauman,  who  heeded  not  her  expos- 
tulatory  parasol  thrust  hastily  toward  him. 

For  a  moment  Paul  failed  to  recognize  that  perfectly 
well-bred  and  glassy  smile.  The  lady  was  so  charmingly 
got  up  as  almost  to  defy  detection  from  her  nearest  friend. 
Then,  next  instant,  as  the  tortoiseshell-eyeglasses  transfixed 
him  with  their  glance,  he  started  and  knew  her.  That 
face  he  had  seen  last  the  day  when  Lionel  Solomons  was 
buried.     It  was  none  other  than  the  Ceriolo  ! 

In  an  agony  of  alarm  he  seized  his  wife's. arm.  He  could 
never  again  permit  his  spotless  Nea  to  be  contaminated 
by  that  horrible  woman's  hateful  presence.  Why,  if  she 
succeeded  in  turning  the  cab  in  time  to  meet  them,  the 
creature  would  actually  try  to  kiss  Nea  before  his  very  eyes 
— she,  that  vile  woman,  whose  vileness  he  had  thoroughly 
felt  on  the  evening  of  poor  Lionel  Solomons'  funeral. 

"  Nea,  darling,"  he  cried,  hurrying  h-  r  along  with  his 
hand  on  her  arm,  "  come  as  fast  as  you  can  !  I  don't  want 
that  woman  there  to  stop  and  speak  to  you  !  " 

"Why,  it's  madame  ! "  Nea  answered,  a  little  surprised. 
"  I  don't  care  for  her,  of  couise  ;  but  it  seems  so  unfriendly 
— and  just  now  above  all — to  deliberately  cut  her  ! " 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  Paul  answered.  "  My  darling,  she's 
not  fit  company  for  you."  And  then,  taking  her  aside 
along  the  alley  at  the  back,  beyond  the  avenue  and  the 
merry-go-rounds,  he  explained  to  her  briefly,  what  she 
already  knew  in  outline  at  least,  the  part  they  all  believed 
Mme.  Ceriolo  to  have  home  in  luring  on  Lionel  Solomons 
to  his  last  awful  enterprise. 

"What's  she  doing  in  Paris,  I  wonder?"  Nea  observed 
reflectively,  as  they  walked  on  down  that  less  frequented 
path  toward  the  Rue  de  Rivoli. 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  Paul  ansv.'ered.     "  She  seemed 


■  u 


.;  ;   tJ 


412 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


i 


very  well  dressetl.  She  must  have  some  sources  of  income 
nobody  knows  of  She  couldn't  afford  to  drive  about  in  a 
carriage  like  that  on  the  strength  of  Mr.  Solomons'  allow- 
ance of  two  hundred." 

Nea  shook  her  head  emphatically.  "  Oh,  dear  no,"  she 
answered,  "not  anything  like  it.  Why,  she's  dressed  in  the 
very  height  of  fashion.  Her  mantle  alone,  if  it  cost  a  far- 
thing, must  have  cost  every  bit  of  twenty  guineas." 

"It's  curious,"  Paul  muttered  in  reply.  "I  never  can 
understand  these  people's  budget.  They  seem  to  pick  up 
money  wher> '  ley  go.  They've  no  visible  means  of  sub- 
sistence, to  spc.  of,  yet  they  live  on  the  fat  of  the  land 
and  travel  about  as  much  as  they've  a  fancy  to." 

"It's  luck,"  Nea  answered.  "  And  dishonesty,  too,  per- 
haps. One  might  always  be  rich  if  one  didn't  care  how 
one  got  one's  money." 

By  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  odd'y  enough,  they 
stumbled  across  another  old  Mentone  acquaintance.  It 
was  Armitage,  looking  a  trifle  less  spick-and-span  than 
formerly,  to  be  sure,  but  still  wearing  in  face  and  coat 
and  head-gear  the  familiar  air  of  an  accomplished 
boulevardier. 

He  struck  an  attitude  the  moment  he  saw  them,  and 
extended  a  hand  of  most  unwonted  cordiality.  One  would 
have  said  from  his  manner  that  the  scallywag  had  been 
the  bosom  friend  of  his  youth,  and  the  best-beloved  com- 
panion of  his  maturer  years — so  affectionate  and  so  warm 
was  his  smile  of  greeting. 

"  What,  Gascoyne  !  "  he  cried,  coming  forward  and  seiz- 
ing his  hand.  "You  here,  my  dear  fellow  !  And  Lady 
Gascoyne  too  !  Well,  this  is  delightful.  I  saw  all  about 
your  marriage  in  the  Whisperer,  you  know,  and  that  you 
had  started  for  Paris,  and  I  was  so  pleased  to  think  it  was 
I  in  great  part  who  had  done  you  the  good  turn  of  first 


TO   PARIS  AND   RACK,    SIXTY  S////.l.IA'CS         4»3 


bringing  you  and  Lady  Gascoyno  together.  Well,  this  is 
indeed  a  plCvisure — a  most  fortunate  meeting  !  I've  been 
hunting  up  and  down  for  you  at  every  hotel  in  all  Paris — 
the  Grand,  the  Continental,  the  Windsor,  the  Ambassadcurs 
— but  I  couldn't  find  you  anywhere.  You  seem  to  have 
buried  yourself.  I  wanted  to  take  you  to  this  reception  at 
the  Embassy." 

'*  You're  very  kind,"  Paul  answered  in  a  reserved  tone, 
for  such  new-born  affection  somewhat  repelled  him  by  its 
empressenient.  "  We've  taken  rooms  in  a  very  small  hotel 
behind  the  Palais  de  I'lndustrie.  We're  poor,  you  know. 
We  couldn't  afford  to  stop  at  such  places  as  the  Grand  or 
the  Continental." 

Armitage  slipped  his  arm  irresistibly  into  Paul's.  "I'll 
walk  with  you  wherever  you're  going,"  he  said.  "  It's  such 
a  pleasure  to  meet  you  both  again.  And  how  long.  Lady 
Gascoyne,  do  you  remain  in  Paris  ?  " 

Nea  told  him,  and  Armitage,  drawing  down  the  corners 
of  his  mouth  at  the  news,  regretted  their  departure  excess- 
ively. There  were  so  many  things  coming  off  this  next 
week,  don't  you  know.  And  the  Lyttons  would  of  course 
be  so  delighted  to  get  them  an  invitation  for  that  crush  at 
the  Elys^es. 

"  We  don't  care  for  crushes,  thanks,"  Paul  responded 
frigidly. 

"  And  who  do  you  think  we  saw  just  now,  up  near  the 
Rond  Pointe,  Mr.  Armitage  ? "  Nea  put  in,  with  perfect 
innocence.     "  Why,  Mme.  Ceriolo." 

"  Got  up  younger  than  ever,"  Paul  went  on  with  a  smile. 
It  was  Armitage's  turn  to  draw  himself  up  now. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  stiffly,  "but  I  think — 
a — you  labor  under  a  misapprehension.  Her  name's  not 
Ceriolo  any  longer,  you  know.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  have 
explained  before.     The  truth  is,  you  see  " — he  stroked  his 


if 


iv«' 


414 


THF.    SCALLYWAG. 


Ws 


beard  fondly — "  well — to  rut  it  short — in  point  of  fact,  she's 
married." 

"  Oh,  yes,  we  know  all  that,"  Paul  answered,  with  a  care- 
less wave  of  the  hand.  *'  She's  Mrs.  Lionel  Solomons  now, 
by  rights,  we're  well  aware.  I  was  present  at  her  husband's 
funeral.  But,  of  course,  she  won't  be  guilty  of  such  an 
egregious  piece  of  folly  as  calling  herself  by  her  new  name. 
Ceriolo's  a  much  better  name  to  trade  upon  than  Solomons, 
any  day." 

Armitage  dropped  his  arm — a  baronet's  arm — with  a 
little  sudden  movement,  and  blushed  brilliant  crimson. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  that"  he  said,  looking  just  a  little 
sheepish.  "  Marie's  told  me  all  that,  I  need  hardly  say. 
It  was  a  hasty  episode — mistaken,  mistaken  !  Poor  child, 
I  don't  blame  her>  she  was  so  alone  in  the  world — she 
needed  companionship.  I  ought  to  have  known  it.  And 
the  old  brute  of  an  uncle  behaved  most  shamefullv  to  her, 
too,  aiterward.  But  no  matter  about  that.  It's  a  long 
story.  Happily,  Marie's  a  person  not  easily  crushed. 
What  I  meant  was  this.  I  thought,  perhaps,  you'd  have 
seen  it  in  the  pap'^rs."  And  he  pulled  out  from  his  caiu 
case  a  little  printed  paragraph  which  he  handed  to  Paul. 
"  She  was  married  at  the  Embassy,  you  see,"  he  went  on, 
still  more  sheepishly  than  before.  **  Married  at  the 
Embassy,  the  very  same  day  as  you  and  Lady  Gascoyne, 
In  point  of  fact  the  lady  you  were  speaking  of  is  at  this 
present  moment — Mrs,  Armitage." 

"  So  she's  caught  you  at  last ! "  was  what  Paul  nearly 
blurted  out  in  his  astonishment  on  the  spur  of  the  moment, 
but  with  an  effort  he  refrained  and  restrained  himself. 
"  I'm  sorry  I  should  have  said  anything,"  he  replied 
instead,  "  that  might  for  a  moment  seem  disrespectful  to 
the  lady  you've  made  your  wife.  You  may  be  sure  I 
wouldn't  have  done  so  had  I  in  the  least  anticipated  it," 


H 


A    FALL   IN  CENTRAL   SO  UT// ERA'S. 


415 


"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  Armitage  answered  a  little  crest- 
fallen, but  with  genial  tolerance,  like  one  well  accustomed 
to  such  trifling  criticisms.  **  It  doesn't  surprise  me  in  the 
least  that  you  misjudge  Marie.  Many  people  misjudge  her 
who  don't  know  her  well.  I  misjudged  her  once  myself, 
I'm  free  to  confess,  as  I  daresay  you  remember.  But  I 
know  better  now.  You  see,  it  was  difficult  at  first  to  accept 
her  romantic  story  in  full — such  stories  are  so  often  a  mere 
tissue  of  falsehoods — but  it's  all  quite  true  in  her  case.  I've 
satisfied  myself  on  that  point.  She's  put  my  mind  quite  at 
ease  as  to  the  real  position  of  her  relations  in  the  Tyrol. 
They're  most  distinguished  people,  I  assure  you,  the  Ceriolos 
of  Ceriolo — most  distinguished  people.  She's  lately  inher- 
ited a  very  small  fortune  from  one  of  them — just  a  couple 
of  hundred  a  year  or  thereabouts.  And  with  her  little 
income  and  my  little  income,  we  mean  to  get  along  now  very 
comfortably  on  the  Continent.  Marie's  a  great  favorite  in 
society  in  Paris,  you  know.  If  you  and  Lady  Gascoyne 
were  going  to  stop  a  week  longer  here,  I'd  ask  you  to  dine 
with  us  to  meet  the  world  at  our  flat  in  the  Avenue  Victor 
Hugo." 

And  when  Armitage  had  dropped  them  opposite  Galig- 
nani'Sy  Paul  observed  with  a  quiet  smile  to  Nea: 

"  Well,  she's  made  the  best,  anyhow,  of  poor  Mr.  Solo- 
mons' unwilling  allowance." 


.U  '.i 


'\\ 


'  \i 


CHAPTER  L. 


A  FALL  IN  CENTRAL  SOUTHERNS. 


The  shortest  hone>  xioon  ends  at  last  (for,  of  course,  the 
longest  one  does),  and  Paul  and  Nea  were  expected  back 
one  Thursday  afternoon  at  home  at  Hillborough. 

That  day  Mr,  Solorjions  was  all  agog  with  excitement, 


4i6 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


m 


He  was  ashamed  to  let  even  his  office-boy  see  how  much 
he  anticipated  Sir  Paul  and  Lady  Gascoyne's  arrival.  He 
had  talked  of  Sir  Paul^ indeed,  till  he  was  fairly  angry  with 
himself.  It  was  Sir  Paul  here,  Sir  Paul  there,  Sir  Paul 
everywhere.  He  had  looked  out  Sir  Paul's  train  half  a 
dozen  times  over  in  his  dog-eared  "  IJradshaw,"  and  had 
then  sent  out  his  clerk  for  another — a  new  one — for  fear  the 
service  Sir  Paul  had  written  about  might  be  taken  off  the 
Central  Southern  time  table  for  September.  At  last,  by 
way  of  calming  his  jerky  nerves,  he  determined  to  walk 
over  the  Knoll  and  down  upon  the  station,  where  he  would 
be  the  first  to  welcome  Lady  Gascoyne  to  Hillborough. 
And  he  set  out  well  in  time,  so  as  not  to  have  to  mount  the 
steep  hill  too  fast ;  for  the  front  of  the  hill  is  very  steep 
indeed,  and  Mr.  Solomons'  heart  was  by  no  means  so  vig- 
orous these  last  few  weeks  as  its  owner  could  have  wished 
it  to  be. 

However,  by  dint  of  much  puffing  at)d  panting,  Mr.  Sol- 
omons reached  the  top  at  last,  and  sat  down  a  while  on  the 
dry  turf,  looking  particularly  blue  about  the  lips  and  cheeks, 
to  gain  a  little  breath  and  admire  for  the  fiftieth  time  that 
beautiful  outlook.  And  well  he  might ;  for  the  view  from 
the  Knoll  is  one  of  the  most  justly  famous  among  the  Sur- 
rey Hills.  On  one  side  you  gaze  down  upon  the  vale  of 
Hillborough,  with  its  tall  church  spire  and  town  of  red-tiled 
roofs,  having  the  station  in  the  foreground,  and  the  long, 
steep  line  of  the  North  Downs  at  their  escarpment  backing 
it  up  behind  with  a  sheer  wall  of  precipitous  greensward. 
On  the  other  side  you  look  away  across  the  Sussex  Weald, 
blue  and  level  as  the  sea,  or  bounded  only  on  its  further 
edge  by  the  purple  summits  of  the  Forest  Ridge  to  south- 
ward. Close  by,  the  Central  Southern  Railway,  coming 
from  Hipsley,  intersects  with  its  hard  iron  line  a  gorse-clad 
common,  and,  passing  by  a   tunnel  under   the   sandstone 


A    FA  I.I.    I.V   rF..VTR.'II.    SOrT/fF.RXS. 


417 


hogsback  of  the  Knoll,  emerges  at  once  on  Hillboroiigh 
station,  embosomed  in  the  beeches  ami  elms  of  lioldwood 
Manor. 

Mr.  Solomons  paused  and  gazed  at  it  long.  There  was 
Hipsley,  distinct  on  the  common  southwarrl,  with  a  train 
at  the  platform  bound  in  the  opposite  direction,  and  soon 
Sir  Paul's  train  would  reach  there  too,  bringing  Sir  Paul 
and  Lady  (iascoyne  to  Hillborough.  The  old  money- 
lender smiled  a  pitying  smile  to  himself  as  he  thought  how 
eagerly  and  childishly  he  expected  them.  How  angry  he 
had  been  with  Paul  at  first  for  throwing  himself  away  upon 
that  penniless  Cornish  girl  !  and  now,  how  niuch  more  than 
pleased  he  felt  that  \\\'> prot^gS  had  chosen  the  better  part, 
and  not,  like  Demas  and  poor  Lionel,  turned  aside  from 
the  true  way  to  a  fallacious  silver  mine. 

'*  He's  a  good  boy,  Paul  is,"  the  old  man  thought  to  *Nm- 
self,  as  he  got  up  from  the  turf  once  more,  ind  set  out  to 
walk  across  the  crest  of  the  Knoll  and  down  upon  the  sia- 
tion.  *'  He's  a  good  boy,  Paul,  and  it's  1  who  have  made 
him." 

He  walked  forward  a  while,  ruminating,  along  the  top  of 
the  ridge,  hardly  looking  where  he  went,  till  he  came  to  the 
point  just  above  the  tunnel.  There  he  suddenly  stumbled. 
Something  unexpected  knocked  against  his  foot,  though 
the  greensward  on  the  top'\vas  always  so  fine  and  clean  and 
close-cropped.  It  jarred  him  for  a  moment,  so  sudden  was 
the  shock.  Mr.  Solomons,  blue  already,  grew  bluer  still  as 
he  halted  and  held  his  hand  to  his  head  for  a  second  to 
steady  his  impressions.  Then  he  looked  dovvn  to  see  what 
cculd  have  lain  in  his  path,  viood  Heavens  !  this  was 
queer  !     He  rubbed  his  eyes, 

"Never  saw  anything  at  all  like  this  on  the  top  of  the 
Knoll  before.     God  bless  me  !  " 

There  was  a  hollow  or  pit  into  which  he  had  stepped  in- 


m 


4i8 


TIfE    SCALI.  YWAG. 


1 
I 


Y^ 


advertently,  some  eight  or  ten  inches  or  thereabouts  below 
the  general  level. 

Mr.  Solomons  rubbed  his  eyes  and  looked  again.  Yes, 
he  was  neither  daft,  nor  drunk,  nor  ilazed,  nor  dreaming. 
A  hollow  in  the  path  lay  slowly  yawning  before  him. 

Slowly  yawning  !  for  the  next  instant  Mr.  Solomons 
became  aware  th.it  the  pit  was  even  now  actual  in  progress. 
It  was  sinking,  sinking,  sinking,  inch  !)y  inch,  and  he  him- 
self, as  it  seemed,  was  sinking  with  it. 

As  he  looked  he  saw  the  land  give  yet  more  suddenly 
toward  the  center.  Hardly  realizing  even  then  what  was 
taking  place  before  his  very  eyes,  he  had  still  presence 
of  mind  enough  left  to  jump  aside  from  the  dangerous 
spot,  and  scramble  back  again  to  the  solid  bank  beyond 
it.  Just  as  he  did  so,  the  whole  mass  caved  in  with  a  hol- 
low noise,  and  left  a  funnel-shaped  hole  in  the  very  center. 

Mr.  Solomons,  dazed  and  stunned,  knew,  nevertheless, 
what  had  really  happened.  The  tuimel — that  suspected 
tunnel — had  fallen  in.  The  brick  roof,  perhaps,  had  given 
way,  or  the  arch  had  failed  somewhere  ;  but  of  one  thing  he 
was  certain — the  tunnel  had  fallen. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  engineers  reported  afterward, 
rainfall  had  slowly  carried  away  the  sandstone  of  the  hill, 
a  grain  at  a  time,  by  stream  and  rivulet,  till  it  bad  left 
a  hollow  space  overhead  between  rock  and  vaulting. 
Heavy  showers  had  fallen  the  night  before,  and,  by  water- 
logging the  soil,  had  added  to  the  weight  of  the  superin- 
cumbent strata.  Cohesion  no  longer  sufficed  to  support 
the  mass  ;  it  caved  in  slowly  ;  and  at  the  very  moment 
when  Mr.  Solomons  saved  himself  on  the  firm  soil  at  the 
the  side,  it  broke  down  the  brickwork  and  filled  in  the 
tunnel. 

But  of  all  this,  Mr.  Solomons  for  the  moment  was 
ignorant. 


A    FAI !    IS'  CEXTfiA!    SOrritFRXS, 


419 


Any  other  ni.m  in  his  plac*.-  would  probably  havr  thought 
at  once  of  the  danj^er  involved  to  life  and  limb  l)y  this 
sudden  catastrophe.  Mr.  Solomons,  lookinj^j  at  it  with  the 
eye  of  a  speculator  and  the  ingrained  habits  of  so  niany 
years  of  money-^jrubbinij,  saw  in  it  instin<:tively  but  one 
prospective  fact — a  certain  fall  in  Ccnlral  Southerns. 

Nobody  but  he  was  in  possession  of  ih.il  inipoitant  fact 
now  ;  he  held  it  as  his  own — a  piece  of  indubilabic  special 
information.  Hy  to-morrow  morning,  all  the  Stock  Ex- 
changes would  know  it.  Everybody  would  be  aware  that 
a  large  tunnel  on  the  tnain  line  of  the  Central  Southern 
had  fallen  in  ;  that  traffic  would  l>e  entirely  suspended  for 
six  months  at  least  ;  that  the  next  half  yearly  tlividend 
would  be  «/7,  or  thereabouts  ;  and  that  a  very  large  sum 
must  come  out  of  the  reserve  fund  for  the  task  of  shoring 
up  so  considerable  a  subsidence.  Mr.  Solomons  chuckled 
to  himself  with  pardonable  delight.  Today,  Central 
Southerns  were  98^  for  the  account  ;  to-niorrow,  he  firmly 
believed,  they  would  be  down  to  90. 

It  was  an  enormous  fall.  Think  what  he  stood  to  win 
by  it  ! 

Just  at  first  his  only  idea  was  to  wire  up  to  town  and  sell 
all  the  stock  he  actually  possessed,  buying  in  again  after 
the  fall  at  the  reduced  quotation.  But  in  another  moment 
his  businesslike  mind  saw  another  and  still  grander  pros- 
pect opening  out  before  him.  Why  limit  himself  to  the 
sum  he  could  gain  over  his  own  shares  ?  Why  not  sell  out 
any  amount  for  which  he  could  find  buyers — for  the 
account,  of  course  ? — in  other  words,  why  not  agree  to 
deliver  Central  Southerns  to  any  extent  next  week  for  gSJ, 
when  he  knew  that  by  that  time  he  could  buy  as  many  as 
ever  he  wanted  for  something  like  90  ? 

To  a  man  of  Mr.  Solomons'  type  the  opening  was  a 
glorious  one, 


Hi 


i 


420 


lllE   SCALI.YWAd, 


In  a  second  of  time,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  vast 
visions  of  wealth  floalid  vaguely  l)t'f<)rr  him.  With  three 
hours*  start  of  such  information  as  that,  any  fellow  who 
chose  could  work  the  market  successfully  ami  make  as 
many  thousantis  as  he  wished,  without  risk  or  difficulty. 
If  buyers  could  be  found,  there  was  no  reason,  indeed,  why 
he  shouldn't  sell  out  at  current  prices  the  entire  stock  of 
the  Central  Southern  on  sp"c  ;  it  would  be  easy  enouj^h 
to-morrow  to  buy  it  all  back  aj^ain  at  eiy;ht  or  nine  dis- 
count. So  wonderful  a  chancx'  seldom  falls  so  |iat  in  the 
way  of  a  man  of  business.  It  would  be  next  door  to 
criminal  not  to  seize  upon  such  a  brilliant  opportimity  of 
fortune. 

In  the  interests  of  his  heirs,  executors,  and  assigns,  Mr. 
Solomons  felt  called  upon  to  run  for  it  immediately.  lie 
set  off  running  down  the  Knoll  at  once,  in  the  dire  n  of 
Hillborough   station,  lying  snug  in  the   valley  anu  he 

elms  and  beeches  below  there.  There  was  a  telegraph 
office  at  the  station,  and  thence  Mr.  Solomons  designed 
to  wire  to  London.  He  would  instruct  his  broker  to  sell 
as  many  Central  Southern  A's  for  the  account  as  the  market 
would  take,  and,  if  necessary,  to  sell  a  point  or  two  below 
the  current  Stock  Exchange  quotations. 

Blown  as  he  was  with  mounting  the  hill,  and  puffed  with 
running,  it  was  hard  work  that  spurt — but  the  circumstances 
demanded  it.  Thousands  were  at  stake.  For  the  sake  of 
his  heirs,  executors,  and  assigns  he  felt  he  must  run  the 
risk  with  that  shaky  old  heart  of  his. 

Panting  and  blowing,  he  reached  the  bottom  of  the  hill, 
and  looked  into  the  mouth  of  the  tunnel,  through  which,  as 
a  rule,  you  could  see  daylight  from  the  side  toward  Hipsley. 
The  change  from  the  accustomed  sight  gave  him  a  shock 
of  surprise.  Thirty  or  forty  yards  from  the  entrance,  the 
tunnel  was  entirely  blocked  by  a  rough  mass  of  dSris.     If 


A   FAIL   IX  CENTRAL   SOUTHhHNS, 


421 


a  train  came  throiijrh  now  there  would  l)e  a  terrible  smash. 
Aiul  in  that  case  Central  Southerns  would  fall  still  lower— 
what  with  compensation  and  so  forth — perhaps  as  low  as 
86-87. 

If  a  train  came  through  there  would  be  a  terrible  smash. 
I'he  down  train  would  have  just  got  off  before  the  fall. 
I'he  up-train  would  be  coming  very  soon  now.  .  .  .  An(^ 
Sir  Paul  and  Lady  (Jascoyne  would  be  in  it ! 

With  a  burst  of  honor,  .Mr.  Solomons  realized  at  last  that 
aspect  of  the  case  which  to  almost  anyone  else  would  jjave 
been  the  first  to  present  itself.  There  was  danger  to  life 
and  limb  in  the  tunnel  !  Men  and  women  might  be 
mangled,  crushed,  and  killed.  And  among  them  would, 
perhaps,  be  Paul  and  Nea  I 

The  revulsion  was  terrible,  liorrible,  ghastly.  Mr.  Solo- 
mons pulled  himself  tf)gether  with  a  painful  pull.  The 
first  thing  to  do  was  to  warn  the  station-master,  and  pre- 
vent an  accident.  The  next  thing  only  was  to  wire  up  to 
London,  and  sell  out  for  the  account  all  his  Central 
Southerns. 

Sell  out  Central  Southerns  !  Pah  !  What  did  that 
matter  !  Sir  Paul  and  Lady  Ga.scoyne  were  in  the  up- 
train.  Unless  he  made  haste,  all,  all  would  be  lost.  He 
would  be  left  in  his  old  age  more  desolate  than  ever. 

The  new  bubble  would  burst  as  awfully  as  the  old  one. 

Fired  with  this  fresh  idea,  Mr.  Solomons  rushed  for- 
ward once  more,  bluer,  bluerthan  ever,  and  hurried  toward 
the  station,  in  a  bee-line,  regardless  of  the  information 
vouchsafed  by  the  notice-boards  that  trespassers  would  be 
prosecuted.  He  ran  as  if  his  life  depended  upon  his  get- 
ting  there.  At  all  hazards,  he  must  warn  them  to  stop  the 
up-train  at  Hipsley  station. 

By  the  gate  of  a  meadow  he  paused  for  a  second  to  catch 
his  breath  and  mop  his  forehead.     A  man  was  at  work  there 


422 


THE  SCALLYWAG. 


h 


1*1 


turning  manure  with  a  fork.  Mr.  Solomons  was  blown 
He  called  out  loudly  to  the  man,  "  Hi,  you  there,  come 
here,  will  you." 

The  man  turned  ivumd  anJ  touched  his  hat  respectfully. 

'*  The  Knoll  tunnel's  fallen  in  !  "  Mr.  Solomons  blurted 
out  between  his  convulsive  bursts  of  breath. 
'    The  n:in  stuck  his  fork  in  the  ground  and  stared  stolidly 
in  the  direction  indicated.     "  So  it  hev,"  he  murmured. 
"  Well,  naov/,  that's  cur'ous." 

Mr.  Solomons  recognized  him  for  the  stolid  fool  of  a 
rustic  that  he  was.  There's  only  one  way  to  quicken  these 
creatures' blunted  intelligence.  He  drew  out  his  purse  and 
took  from  it  a  sovereign,  which  he  dangled  temptingly. 

"Take  this,"  he  cried,  holding  it  out,  "and  run  as  fast 
as  you  can  run  to  the  Hillborough  station.  Tell  the 
station-master  the  Knoll  tunnel  has  fallen  in.  Tell  him  to 
twlegraph  to  Hipsley  and  stop  the  up-train.  For  God's 
sake  go,  or  we  shall  have  an  accident !  " 

In  his  dull,  remote  way,  urged  on  by  the  sovereign,  the 
man  took  it  in — slowly,  slowly,  slowly  ;  and,  as  soon  as  the 
facts  had  penetrated  through  his  thick  skull,  began  to  run 
at  the  top  of  his  speed  over  hedges  and  ditches  toward  the 
gate  of  the  station.  "  Tell  him  to  telegraph  at  once,"  Mr. 
Solomons  shouted  after  him.  **  The  tunnel's  blocked, 
there'll  be  loss  of  life  unless  he  looks  sharp  about  it." 

And  then,  having  recc^  ered  his  breath  a  bit  himself,  he 
crossed  the  gate  and  proceeded  to  follow  him.  There 
would  still  be  tim.?  to  realize  that  fortune  by  selling  out 
close  at  existing  prices. 

Next  instant,  with  another  flash  of  mspiration,  it  came 
across  his  mind  that  he  had  done  the  wrong  thing.  No  use 
at  all  to  give  warning  at  Hillborough.  The  wires  went 
over  the  tunnel,  and  he  remembered  now  that  the  pole  had 
fallen  and  snapped  them  in  the  midst  at  the  moment  of  the 


CArASTROPIIE. 


423 


subsidence.  There  was  no  communication  at  afl  with 
Hipsley.  It  was  toward  Hipsley  itself  he  ought  to  have 
gone  in  the  first  place.  He  must  go  there  now,  all  blown 
as  he  was  ;  go  there  at  all  hazards.  He  must  warn  the 
train,  or  Sir  Paul  and  Lady  Gascoyne  would  be  killed  in  the 
tunnel ! 

It  came  vipon  him  with  all  the  sudden  clearness  of  a 
revelation.  There  was  no  time  to  wait  or  think.  He  must 
turn  and  act  upon  it.  In  a  second,  he  had  clambered  over 
the  gate  once  more,  and,  blue  and  hot  in  the  face,  was 
mounting  the  Knoll  with  incredible  haste,  for  his  weight 
and  age,  urged  on  by  his  wild  destre  to  save  Paul  and  Nea. 

He  struggled  and  scrambled  up  the  steep  face  of  the 
hill  with  eager  feet.  At  the  top  he  paused  a  moment,  and 
panted  for  breath.  The  line  lies  straight  in  view  across  the 
long  flat  weald.  From  that  panoramic  point  he  could  see 
clearly  beneath  him  the  whole  level  stretch  of  the  iron  road. 
A  cloud  of  white  steam  sped  merrily  along  across  the 
open  lowland.  It  was  the  up-train  even  now  on  its  way 
to  Hipsley. 

No  time  now  to  stop  it  before  it  left  the  station  !  But  by 
descending  at  once  on  the  line  and  running  along  upon  the 
six-foot  way,  he  might  still  succeed  in  attracting  the  engine 
driver's  attention  and  checking  the  train  before  it  reached 
the  tunnel. 


CHAPTER  LI. 


CATASTROPHE. 


Fired  with  this  thought  and  utterly  absorbed  in  his  fears 
for  Paul's  and  Nea's  safety,  Mr.  Solomons  hurried  down 
the  opposite  slope  of  the  ridge,  and,  scrambling  through 
the  cutting,  gained  the  side  of  the  railway.     It  was  fenced 


424 


THE  SCALLYWAG. 


in  by  one  of  those  atrocious  barbed  wire  fences,  with  which 
the  selfishness  of  squires  or  farmers  is  still  permitted  to 
outrage  every  sentiment  of  common  humanity  ;  but  Mr. 
Solomons  was  too  full  of  his  task  to  mind  those  barbarous 
spikes  :  with  torn  clothes  and  bleeding  hands,  he  squeezed 
himself  through  somehow,  and  ran  madly  along  the  line  in 
the  direction  of  Hipsley. 

As  he  did  so  the  loud  snort  of  a  steam-whistle  fell  upon 
his  ear,  away  over  in  front  of  him.  His  heart  sank.  He 
knew  it  was  the  train  leaving  Hipsley  station. 

Still  he  ran  on  wildly.  He  must  run  and  run  till  he 
dropped  now.  No  time  te)  pause  or  draw  breath.  It  was 
necessary  to  give  the  eiigine-driver  ample  warning  before- 
hand, so  that  he  might  put  on  the  brake  some  time  before 
reaching  the  mouth  of  the  tunnel. 

If  not,  the  train  would  dash  into  it  full  speed,  and  not 
a  living  soul  might  survive  the  collision. 

He  ran  along  the  six-foot  way  with  all  his  might,  waving 
his  hands  frantically  above  his  head  toward  the  approach- 
ing train,  and  doing  his  best,  in  one  last  frenzied  effort,  to 
catch  the  driver's  eye  before  it  was  too  late.  His  face  was 
flushed  purple  with  exertion  now,  and  his  breath  came  and 
went  with  deadly  difficulty.  But  on  he  ran,  unheeding  the 
warnings  of  that  throbbing  heart,  unheeding  the  short, 
slxirp  snorts  of  the  train  as  it  advanced,  unheeding  any- 
thing on  earth  save  the  internal  consciousness  of  that  one 
imperative  uuty  laid  on  him.  The  universe  summed  itself 
up  to  his  mind  in  that  supreme  moment  as  a  vast  and 
absorbing  absolute  necessity  to  save  Paul  and  Nea. 

On,  on  the  wild  engine  came,  puffing  and  snorting  terri- 
bly ;  .but  Mr.  Solomons,  nothing  daunted,  on  fire  with  his 
exertions,  almost  flung  himself  in  its  path,  and  shrieked 
aloud,  with  his  hands  tossed  up  and  and  his  face  purple, 


♦'  Stop 


step  ! 


For  God's  sake,  stop  !     Stop  \   stop  ! 


t 

t 

J 

f 


CAVA  STROP  HE. 


42s 


not 


;rn- 

his 

Iked 


I  tell  you  !  "  He  ran  along  backward  now,  still  fronting 
the  train.  •*  Stop  !  stop  !  "  he  cried,  gesticulating  fiercely 
to  the  astonished  driver  "  For  Heaven's  sake,  stop  !  You 
can't  go  on — there's  danger !  " 

The  engine-driver  halted  and  put  on  the  brake.  The 
train  began  to  slow.  Mr.  Solomons  still  danced  and  gestic- 
ulated like  a  madman  before  it.  A  jar  thrilled  through  the 
carriages  from  end  to  end.  With  a  sudden  effort,  the 
guard,  now  thoroughly  roused  to  a  sense  of  danger,  had 
succeeded  in  stopping  it  at  the  very  mouth  of  the  tunnel. 
Mr.  Solomons,  almost  too  spent  to  utter  a  word,  shrieked 
out  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  in  gasping  syJlables.  "  The 
tunnel's  fallen  in.  You  can't  go  on.  Put  back  to  Hipsley, 
I've  come  to  warn  you  ! " 

But  there  was  no  need  for  him  to  explain  any  further 
now.  The  driver,  looking  ahead,  could  see  for  himself  a 
mass  of  yellow  sand  obstructing  the  way  a  hundred  yards 
in  front.  Slowly  he  got  down  and  examined  the  road. 
"That  war  a  narrow  squeak,  Bill,"  he  said,  turning  to  the 
stoker.  "If  it  hadn't  been  for  t''^  old  gentleman,  we'd  all 
'a'  been  in  kingdom  come  by  this  time  !  " 

"  He  looks  very  queer,"  the  stoker  observed,  gazing  close 
at  Mr.  Solomons,  who  had  seated  himself  now  on  the  bank 
by  the  side,  and  was  panting  heavily  with  bluer  face  than 
ever. 

"  He's  run  too  'ard,  that's  where  it  is,"  the  engine- 
driver  went  on,  holding  him  up  and  supporting  him, 
"  Come  along,  sir  ;  come  on  in  the  train  with  us.  Wf  e 
got  to  go  back  to  Hipsley  nov:,  that's  certain." 

But  Mr.  Solomons  only  gasped,  and  struggled  hard  for 
breath.  His  face  was  livid  and  leaden  by  this  time.  A 
terrible  wave  convulsed  his  features.  "  Loosen  his  collar, 
Jim,"  the  stoker  suggested.  The  engine-driver  obeyed,  and 
for  a  moment  Mr.  Solomons  seemed  to  breathe  more  freely. 


436 


THE  SCALLYWAG, 


"  Now  then,  what's  the  matter  ?  Why  don't  we  go  on  ? " 
a  bluff  man  cried,  putting  his  head  out  of  a  first-class  car- 
riage window. 

'  Matter  enough,  sir,"  the  engine-driver  answered. 
*•  Tunnel's  broke  ;  road's  blocked  ahead  ;  and  this  old  gen- 
tleman by  the  side's  a  dying." 

*•  Dying ! "  the  bluff  personage  echoed,  descending 
quickly  from  his  seat,  and  joining  the  group.  "  No,  no  ; 
not  that.  Don't  talk  such  nonsense.  Why,  God  ble^s  my 
soul,  so  he  is,  to  be  sure.  Valvular  disease  of  the  heart, 
that's  what  I  make  it.  Have  you  got  any  brandy,  boys  ? 
Leave  him  to  me.     I'll  attend  to  him.     I'm  a  doctor." 

"  Run  along  the  train.  Bill,"  the  engine-driver  said,  "and 
ask  if  any  gentleman's  got  a  flask  of  brandy." 

In  a  minute  the  stoker  returned,  followed  close  by  Paul, 
who  brought  a  liitle  flask  which  he  offered  for  the  occasion. 

"'Old  up  the  gen'leman's  'ead,  Jim,"  the  stoker  said, 
"  and  pour  down  some  brandy." 

Paul  started  with  horror  and  amazement. 

"Why,  my  God,"  he  cried,  "  it's  Mr.  Solomons  !  " 

Mr  Solomons  opened  his  eyes  for  an  instant.  His  throat 
gurgled. 

"  Good-by,  Sir  Paul,"  h.,  said,  trying  feebly  to  grope  for 
something  in  his  pocket.  •*  Is  Lady  Gascoyne  safe  ?  Then, 
thank  Heaven,  I've  saved  you." 

Paul  knelt  by  his  side,  and  held  the  flask  to  his  ilps.  As 
yet  he  could  hardly  comprehend  what  had  happened. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Solomons,"  he  cried,  bending  over  him  eagerly, 
"  do  try  to  swallow  some."  But  the  blue  lips  never  moved. 
Only,  with  a  convulsive  effort,  Mr.  Solomons  drew  some- 
thing out  of  his  breast  pocket — a  paper  it  seemed,  much 
worn  and  faded — and  clutching  it  tight  in  his  grasp,  seemed 
to  thrust  it  toward  him  with  urgent  anxiety. 

Paul  took  no  notice  of  the  gesture,  but  held  the  brandy 


CATASTROPHE. 


427 


'•and 
Paul, 


As 

rerly, 

)ved. 

jome- 

luch 

;med 

indy 


still  to  Mr.   Solomons'  livid  mouth.     Th^  bluff  passenger 
waved  him  aside. 

"  No  good,"  he  said,  "  no  good,  my  dear  sir.  He  can't 
even  swallow  it.  He's  unconscious  now.  The  valve  don't 
act.  It's  all  up,  I'm  afraid.  Stand  aside  there,  all  of  you, 
and  let  him  have  fresh  air.  That's  his  last  chance.  Fan 
him  with  a  paper."  He  put  his  finger  on  the  pulse,  and 
wiook  his  head  ominously.  **  No  good  at  all,"  he  mur- 
mured. "  He's  run  too  fast,  and  the  effort's  been  too  much 
for  him."  He  examined  the  lips  closely,  and  held  his  ear 
to  catch  the  last  sound  of  breath.  "  Quite  dead  !  "  he  went 
on.  "  Death  from  syncope.  He  died  doing  his  best  to 
prevent  an  accident." 

A  strange  solemn  feeling  came  over  Paul  Gascoyne.  Till 
that  moment  he  had  never  truly  realized  how  much  he  liked 
the  old  Jew  money-lender.  But  there,  as  he  knelt  on  the 
green  sward  beside  his  lifeless  body,  and  knew  on  what 
errand  Mr.  Solomons  had  come  by  his  death,  a  curious 
sense  of  bereavement  stole  slowly  on  him.  It  was  some 
minulcri  before  he  could  even  think  of  Nea,  who  sat  at  the 
window  behind,  anxiously  awaiting  tidings  of  this  unex- 
pected stoppage.  Then  he  burst  into  tears,  as  the  stoker 
and  the  engine-driver  slowly  lifted  the  body  into  an  unoc- 
cupied carriage,  and  called  on  the  passengers  to  take  their 
seats  while  they  backed  once  more  into  H'psley  station. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  Nea  asked,  seeing  Paul  return  with 
blanched  cheek  and  wet  eyes  to  the  door  of  her  carriage. 

Paul  could  hardly  get  out  the  words  to  reply. 

"  A  tunnel's  fallen  in — the  tunnel  under  the  Knoll  that 
I've  often  told  you  about ;  and  Mr.  Solomons,  running  to 
warn  the  train  of  danger,  has  fallen  down  dead  by  the  side 
with  neart-disease." 

"Dead,  Paul?" 

"  Yes,  dead,  Nea." 


i\ 


428 


THE   SCALLYWAG. 


They  gazed  at  one  anotlier  blankly  for  a  moment.  Then 
"  Did  he  know  we  were  here  ?  "  Nea  asked,  with  a  face  of 
horror. 

"  I  think  so,"  Paul  answered.  "  I  wrote  and  told  him 
what  train  we'd  arrive  by  ;  and  he  must  have  found  out 
the  accident  and  rushed,  to  warn  us  before  anybody  else 
was  aware  it  had  tumbled." 

•'  O  Paul,  was  he  alive  to  see  you  ?  " 

**  Alive  ?  "  Paul  answered.  *'  Oh,  yes,  he  spoke  to  me. 
He  asked  if  you  were  safe,  and  said  good-by  to  me." 

They  backed  into  the  station  by  slow  degrees,  and  the 
passengers,  turning  out  with  eager  wonder  and  inquiry, 
began  a  hubbub  of  voices  as  to  the  tunnel,  and  the  accident, 
and  the  man  who  had  warned  them,  and  the  catastrophe, 
and  the  heart-disease,  and  the  chance  there  was  of  getting 
on  to-night,  and  how  on  earth  they  could  ever  get  their 
luggage  carted  across  to  Hillborough  station.  But  Paul 
and  Nea  stood  with  hushed  voices  beside  the  corpse  of  ti.s 
man  they  had  parted  with  so  lightly  a  fortnight  before  at 
Lanhydran  Rectory. 

"  Do  you  know,  Paul,"  Nea  whispered,  as  she  gazed  awe- 
struck at  that  livid  face,  now  half  pale  in  death,  "  I  some- 
how felt  when  he  said  to  me  that  afternoon,  *  From  my  poor, 
old,  worn-out  heart  f  thank  you,'  I  half  felt  as  if  I  was 
never  going  to  see  him  again.  He  said  good-by  to  us  as 
one  says  good-by  to  one's  friends  forever.  And  I  am  glad, 
at  least,  to  think  that  we  made  him  happy." 

"I'm  glad  to  think  so,  too,"  Paul  answered,  with  tears  in 
his  eyes. 

"Then  I  think  he  died  happy,"  Nea  replied  decisively. 

"  But,  Nea,  do  you  know,  till  this  moment  I  never  real- 
ized how  truly  fond  I  was  of  him.  I  feel  now  as  if  an  ele- 
ment had  been  taken  out  of  my  life  forever." 

Slowly  and  gradually  the  people  at  the  station  got  things 


CATASTROP/fF. 


429 


into  order  under  these  altered  conditions.  Cabs  and  car- 
riages were  brought  from  llillborough  to  carry  tlie  through 
l)assengers  and  their  luggage  across  the  gap  in  the  line 
caused  by  the  broken  tunnel.  Telegrams  were  sent  in 
every  direction  to  warn  coming  trains  and  to  organize  a 
temporary  local  service.  All  was  bustle  and  noise  and  tur- 
moil and  confusion.  But  in  the  midst  of  the  hurly-burly,  a 
few  passengers  still  crowded,  whispering,  round  the  silent 
corpse  of  the  man  who  had  met  his  own  death  in  warning 
them  of  their  danger.  f,ittle  by  little  the  story  got  about 
how  this  was  a  Mr.  Solomons,  an  estate  agent  at  Hillbor- 
ough,  and  how  those  two  young  people  standing  so  close 
to  his  side  and  watching  over  his  body  were  Sir  Paul  and 
Lady  Gascoyne,  for  whose  sake  he  had  run  all  the  way  to 
stop  the  train,  and  had  fallen  down  de.«d,  at  the  last  moment, 
of  heart-disease.  In  his  hand  he  .:till  clutched  that  worn 
and  folded  paper  he  had  tried  to  force  upon  Paul,  and  his 
face  yet  wore  in  death  that  eager  expression  of  a  desire  to 
bring  out  words  that  his  tremulous  lips  refused  to  utter. 
They  stood  there  long,  watching  his  features  painfully. 
At  last  a  stretcher  was  brought  from  the  town,  and  Mr. 
Solomons'  body,  covered  with  a  black  cloth,  was  carried 
upon  it  to  his  house  in  the  High  Street.  Paul  insisted  on 
bearing  a  hand  in  it  himself  ;  and  Nea,  walking  slowly  and 
solemnly  by  their  side,  made  her  first  entry  so  as  Lady 
Gascoyne  into  her  husband's  birthplace. 


430 


THE    SCAI.l.  VU'AG. 


riiAnr.R  i.ii. 


ESTATF    OF     IHE    LATK    J.    P.    SOLOMONS. 


?'0R  the  next  week  all  Hillboiough  was  agog  with  the 
fallen  tunnel.  So  great  an  event  had  never  yet  diversified 
the  history  of  the  parish.  'I'lie  little  town  woke  up  and 
found  itself  famous.  The  even  tenor  of  local  life  was  dis- 
turbed by  a  strange  incursion  of  noisy  navvies.  Central 
Southerns  went  down  like  lead  to  ninety,  as  Mr.  Solomons 
had  shrewdly  anticipated.  The  manager  and  the  chief 
engineer  of  the  line  paid  many  visits  to  the  spot  to  inspect 
the  scene  of  the  averted  catastrophe.  Hundreds  of  hands 
were  engaged  at  once  with  feverish  haste  to  begin  excava- 
tions, and  to  clear  the  line  of  the  accumulated  debris.  But 
six  months  at  least  must  elapse,  so  everybody  said,  before 
traffic  was  restored  to  the  status  quo,  and  the  Central  South- 
ern was  once  more  in  working  order.  A  parallel  calamity 
was  unknown  in  the  company's  history  •  it  was  only  by  the 
greatest  good  luck  in  the  world,  the  directors  remarked 
ruefully  at  their  next  meeting,  that  they  had  escaped  the 
onus  and  odium  of  what  the  newspapers  called  a  good  first- 
class  murderous  selling  railway  accident. 

On  one  point,  indeed,  all  the  London  press  was  agreed  on 
the  Friday  morning,  that  the  highest  praise  was  due  to  the 
heroic  conduct  of  Mr.  Solomons,  a  Jewish  gentleman  resi- 
dent at  Hillborough,  who  was  the  first  to  perceive  the  sub- 
sidence of  the  ground  on  the  Knoll,  and  who,  rightly  con- 
jecturing the  nature  of  the  disaster,  hurried — unhappily,  at 
the  cost  of  his  own  life — to  warn  the  station-masters  at 
either  end  of  the  danger  that  blocked  the  way  in  the  buried 
tunnel.  As  he  reached  his  goal  he  breathed  his  last,  pour- 
ing forth  his  message  of  mercy  to  the  startled  engine-driver. 


ESTATE   OE   THE   F.ATE   /.    P.    S(>/).)/OVS. 


4.^t 


This  beautiful  touch,  said  the  leader-writers,  with  conven- 
tional pathos,  made  a  fitting  termination  to  a  noble  act  of 
self-sacrifice  ;  and  the  fact  that  Mr.  SoIoipoiis  had  fnencls 
in  the  train — Sir  Paul  and  Lady  Oascoyne,  who  wert  just 
returning  from  their  wedding  tour  on  the  Continent — rather 
added  to  than  detracted  from  the  dramatic  completeness  of 
this  moving  iUnouement,  It  was  a  pleasure  to  be  able  to 
record  that  the  self-sacrificing  messenger,  before  he  closed 
his  eyes  finally,  had  grasped  the  hands  of  the  friend  he  had 
rescued  in  his  own  dying  fingers,  and  was  aware  that  his 
devotion  had  met  with  its  due  reward.  While  actions  like 
these  continue  to  be  done  in  everyday  life,  the  leader- 
writer*  folt  we  need  never  be  afraid  that  the  old  English 
courage  and  the  old  English  ideal  of  steadfast  duty  are  be- 
ginning  to  fail  us.  The  painful  episode  of  the  Knoll  tunnel 
had  at  least  this  consolatory  point,  that  it  showed  once  more 
to  the  journalistic  intelligence  the  readiness  of  Englishmen 
of  all  creeds  or  parties  to  lay  down  their  lives  willingly  at 
the  call  of  a  great  public  emergency. 

So  poor  Mr.  Solomons,  thus  threnodied  by  the  appointed 
latter-day  bards  of  his  adoptive  nation,  was  buried  at  Hill- 
borough  as  the  hero  of  the  day,  with  something  approach- 
ing public  honors,  Paul,  to  be  sure,  as  the  nearest  friend 
to  the  dead,  took  the  place  of  chief  mourner  beside  the 
open  grave  ;  but  the  neighboring  squires  and  other  great 
county  magnates,  who  under  any  other  circumstances  would 
have  paid  little  heed  to  the  Jewish  money-lender's  funeral, 
were  present  in  person,  or  vicariously  through  their  coach- 
men, to  pay  due  respect  to  a  sigiu.1  act  of  civic  virtue. 
Everybody  was  full  of  praise  for  Mr.  Solomons'  earnest 
endeavor  to  stop  the  train  ;  and  many  who  had  never 
spoken  well  of  him  before,  falling  in  now,  after  the  feeble 
fashion  of  our  kind  and  of  the  domestic  sheep,  with  the 
current  of  public  opinion,  found  hitherto  undiscovered  and 


432 


THE   SCALl  YWAG. 


unsuspected  goud  qualities  in  all  the  old  man's  dealings 
with  his  fellow-creatures  generally. 

The  day  after  the  funeral,  Paul,  as  Mr.  Solomons'  last 
bailer,  attended  duly,  as  in  duty  bound,  with  the  will  con- 
fided to  his  care  in  his  hand,  at  the  country  attorney's 
office  of  Barr  &  Wilkie's,  close  by  in  High  Street. 

Mr.  Wilkie  received  him  with  unwonted  courtesy  ;  but  to 
that,  indeed,  Paul  was  now  beginning  to  grow  quite  accus- 
tomed. He  found  everywhere  that  Sir  Paul  (iascoyne 
made  his  way  in  the  world  in  a  fashion  to  which  plain  Paul 
had  been  wholly  unused  in  his  earlier  larval  stages.  Still, 
Mr.  Wilkie's  manner  was  more  than  deferential,  even  in 
these  newer  days  of  acknowledged  baronetcy.  He  bowed 
his  fat  little  neck,  and  smiled  with  all  his  broad  and 
stumpy  little  face — why  are  country  attorneys  invariably 
fat,  broad,  and  stumpy,  I  wonder — so  that  Paul  began  to 
speculate  with  himself  what  on  earth  could  be  the  matter 
with  the  amiable  lawyer.  But  he  began  conversation  with 
what  seemed  to  Paul  a  very  irrelevant  remark. 

"  This  smash  in  the  tunnel'U  have  depreciated  the  value 
of  your  property  somewhat,  Sir  Paul,"  he  said,  smiling  and 
rubbing  his  hands,  as  soon  as  the  first  interchange  of 
customary  civilities  was  over.  **  Central  Southern  A's  are 
down  at  89-90." 

Paul  stared  at  him  in  astonishment. 

"  I'm  not  a  holder  of  stock,  Mr.  Wilkie,"  he  answered, 
after  a  brief  pause  of  mental  wonder. 

The  attorney  gazed  back  with  a  comically  puzzled  look. 

"But  Mr.  Solomons  was,"  he  answered.  Then  after  a 
short  pause,  "What  !  you  don't  know  the  contents  of  our 
poor  friend  Solomons'  will,  then,  don't  you  ?  "  he  inquired, 
beaming. 

"  Why,  that's  just  what  I've  come  about,"  Paul  replied, 
producing  it.     "  A  day  or  two  after  his  nephew  Lionel  was 


ESTATE   OF    THE    r.ATE  J.    P.    SO/O.XfOXS. 


433 


buried  at  Lizard  Town  Mr.  Solomons  j^ave  nic  this  to  take 
care  of,  and  asked  mc  to  see  it  was  duly  proved  afUM  his 
death,  and  so  forth.  If  you  look  at  it,  you'll  see  he  leaves 
all  his  properly  absolutely  to  the  Jewish  Hoard  of  (luardians 
in  London." 

Mr.  VVilkie  took  the  paper  from  his  hand  with  an  incred- 
ulous smile,  and  js^lanced  over  il  languidly. 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,"  he  answered  with  a  benignant  nod 
— the  country  attorney  is  always  benignant—"  but  you 
evidently  don't  understand  our  poor  friend's  ways  as  well 
as  I  do.  It  was  a  fad  of  his,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  that  he 
always  carried  his  will  about  with  him,  duly  signed  and 
attested,  in  his  own  breast-pocket,  *  in  case  of  accitlent,'  as 
he  used  to  put  it." 

*•  Oh,  yes,"  Paul  answered,  "  I  know  all  that.  He  carried 
the  predecessor  of  this  about  in  his  pocket  just  so,  and  he 
showed  it  to  me  in  the  train  when  we  were  going  down  to 
Cornwall,  and  afterward,  when  poor  Lionel  was  dead,  he 
handed  the  present  will  over  to  me  to  take  particular  care 
of,  because,  he  said,  he  thought  he  could  trust  me." 

**  Ah,  yes,"  the  man  of  law  answered  dryly,  looking  up 
with  a  sharp  smile.  "  That's  all  very  well  as  far  as  it  goes. 
But,  as  a  matter  of  habit,  I  know  our  friend  Solomons  would 
never  have  dreamed  of  handing  over  one  will  to  you  till  he'd 
executed  another  to  carry  in  his  own  breast-pocket.  It 
would  have  made  him  fidgety  to  miss  the  accustomed  feel 
of  it.  He  couldn't  have  gone  about  ten  minutes  in  com- 
fort without  one.  And,  indeed,  in  point  of  fact,  he  didn't. 
Do  you  know  this  paper,  Sir  Paul  ?  "  and  the  lawyer  held 
up  a  stained  and  folded  document  that  had  seen  much  wear. 

"  Do  you  know  this  paper  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,"  Paul  answered,  with  a  start  of  recognition. 
'*  I've  seen  it  before  somewhere.  Ah,  now  I  remember. 
It's  the  paper  Mr.  Solomons  was  clutching  in  his  folded 


4J4 


THF.    SCAfJ  YIVAG. 


fini^f IS  when  I  saw  him  last  lialf  alive  and  half  dead  at 
Ilipslcy  station." 

'•  (^)uiic  so,"  the  lawyer  answered.  "  That's  exactly  what 
it  is.  You're  perfectly  rij^lil,  I'lic  men  who  brought  him 
back  handed  it  over  to  me  as  his  legal  adviser  ;  and  tljoiigh 
I  didn't  draw  it  up  myself — poor  Solomons  was  always 
absurdly  secretive  about  these  domestic  matters,  and  had 
them  done  in  town  l)y  a  strange  solicitor — I  sec  it's  in 
reality  his  last  will  and  testament." 

**  Later  than  the  one  I  propound  ?  "  Paul  Inquired,  hardly 
suspecting  as  yet  whither  all  this  tended. 

'•  Later  by  two  days,  sir,"  Mr.  Wilkie  rejoined,  beaming. 
•'  It's  executed.  Sir  Paul,  on  the  very  same  day,  I  note,  as 
the  date  you've  endorsed  the  will  he  gave  you  upon.  In 
point  of  fact,  he  must  have  had  this  new  will  drawn  up  and 
signed  in  the  morning,  and  must  have  deposited  the 
dummy  one  it  superseded  with  you  in  the  afternoon.  Very 
like  his  natural  secretiveness,  that  !  He  wished  to  conceal 
from  you  the  nature  of  his  arrangements.  For  Lionel 
Solomons'  death  seems  entirely  to  have  changed  his  testa- 
mentary intentions  and  to  have  diverted  his  estate,  both 
real  and  personal — well,  so  to  speak,  to  the  next  repre- 
sentative." 

•*  You  don't  mean  to  say,"  Paul  cried,  astonished,  *'  he's 
left  it  all  to  Mme.  Ceriolo — to  Lionel's  widow  ?" 

The  lawyer  smiled  a  sphinx-like  enigmatic  smile.  "  No, 
my  dear  sir,"  he  answered  in  the  honeyed  voice  in  which  a 
wise  attorney  invariably  addresses  a  rich  and  prospective 
client.  ■''He  revokes  all  previous  wills  and  codicils  what- 
soever, and  leaves  everything  he  dies  possessed  of  abso- 
lutely and  without  reserve  to — his  dear  friend,  Sir  Paul 
Gascoyne,  Baronet." 

"  No  ;  you  don't  mean  that !  "  Paul  cried,  taken  aback, 
and  clutching  at  his  chair  for  support,  his  very  first  feeling 


ESTATE   OF    THE   I  ATE  J,    A    SOI.OMOXS 


1.VS 


at  this  suddrn  access  of  wraith  brinjj  one  of  surprise, 
delight,  and  pleasure  that  Mr.  Solomons  should  have 
harbored  so  kindly  a  inou^ht  about  him. 

"  Yes,  he  (h)es,"  the  iawvrr  answerer!,  warily  making  the 
best  of  his  chance  in  break  iig  the  j^ood  li(linv;R.  *'  Vou  ran 
read  for  yourself  if  yon  lik^*,  *  who  has  been  nu>re  fhan  a 
son  to  me,*  he  says,  '  in  my  forlorn  old  age,  and  in  con- 
sideration of  the  uniform  genllcness,  kindness,  sense  of 
justice,  and  forbearance  with  which  he  has  borne  all  the 
fads  and  fancies  of  an  exacting  and  often  whimsical  old 
money. lender.*  *' 

The  tears  rose  fast  into  Paul's  eyes  as  he  read  these 
words.  '•  I'm  afraid."  he  said,  after  a  pause,  with  genuine 
self-reproach,  "  I've  sometimes  thought  too  hardly  of  him, 
M;.  VVilkie." 

"  Well,"  the  lawyer  answered  briskly,  "  he  screwed  you 
down.  Sir  Paul,  there's  no  doubt  about  that — he  screwed 
you  down  infernally.  It  was  his  nature  to  screw,  he  coiildn*t 
help  it.  He  had  his  virtues,  good  soul,  as  well  as  his  faults; 
I  freely  admit  them  ;  but  nobody  ( an  deny  he  was  an 
infernally  hard  hand  at  a  bargain  sometimes." 

"Still,  I  always  thought,  in  a  sneaking  sort  of  way,  half 
unknown  to  himself,  he  had  my  interests  truly  at  heart," 
Paul  answered  penitently. 

"  Well,  there's  a  note  inclosed  with  the  will — a  private 
note,"  the  lawyer  went  on,  producing  it.  "  I  haven't  opened 
it,  of  course — it's  directed  to  yon  ;  but  I  daresay  it'll  clear 
up  matters  on  that  score  somewhat. 

Paul  broke  the  envelope  and  read  to  himself  in  l)reathless 
silence  : 


"  Mv  Dear,  Dear  Boy  : 

"  When  you  open  this,  I  shall  be  dead  and  gone.     I  want 
your  kind  thoughts.     Don't  think  too  hardly  of  me.     Since 


43^ 


THE   SCALLYWAG, 


Leo  died,  I've  thought  only  of  you.  Vou  are  all  I  have  left 
on  earth  to  work  and  toil  for.  But  if  I'd  told  you  so  openly, 
and  wiped  out  your  arrears,  or  even  seemed  to  relax  my 
oUi  ways  at  all  about  money,  you'd  have  found  nie  out  and 
protested,  and  refused  to  be  adopted.  I  didn't  want  to 
spoil  your  fine  sense  of  independence.  To  tell  you  the 
truth,  for  my  own  sake  I  couldn't.  What's  bred  in  the  bone 
will  out  in  the  blood.  While  I  live,  I  must  grasp  at  money, 
not  for  myself,  but  for  you  ;  it's  become  a  sort  of  habit 
and  passion  with  me.  But  forgive  me  for  all  that.  I  hope 
I  shall  succeed  in  the  end  in  making  you  happy.  When 
you  come  into  what  I've  saved,  and  are  a  rich  man,  as  you 
ought  to  be,  and  admired  and  respected  and  a  credit  to 
your  country,  think  kindly  sometimes  of  the  poor  old  man 
who  loved  you  well  and  left  his  all  to  you.  Good-by,  my 
son. 

'*  Yours  ever  affectionately, 

"J.  P.  Solomons. 

"  P.  S. — H  Lady  Gascoyne  is  ever  presented  at  court,  I 
hope  she  will  kindly  remember  to  wear  my  diamonds." 


When  Paul  laid  the  letter  down  the  tears  were  dimmer  in 
his  eyes  than  ever. 

"  I  so  oftcu  misjudged  him,"  he  said  slowly.  "  I  so  often 
misjudged  him." 

"  But  there's  a  codicil  to  the  will,  too,"  Mr.  Wilkie  said 
cheerfully,  after  a  moment's  pause.  **  I  forgot  to  tell  you 
that.  There's  a  codicil  also.  Curiously  enough,  it's  dated 
the  day  after  your  marriage.  He  must  have  gone  up  to 
town  on  purpose  to  add  it." 

"  I  remember,"  Paul  said,  '*  when  he  left  Lanhydran  he 
mentioned  he  had  important  business  next  day  in  London." 

"  And  by  it,"  the  lawyer  continued,  "  he  leaves  every- 


ESTA  TE   OE    THE   I.A  TE  J.    /'.    tiOl.OMONS. 


437 


thing,  in  case  of  your  death  before  his  own,  absolutely  to 
Nea,  Lady  Gascoyne,  for  her  o\v  i  sole  use  and  benefit," 

'•  That  was  kind,"  Paul  cried,  much  touched.  '*  That 
was  really  thoughtful  of  him," 

"  Yes,"  the  lawyer  answered  dryly  (sentiment  was  not 
very  much  in  his  way)  ;  "  and  as  regards  probate,  from 
what  1  can  hear,  the  value  of  the  estate  must  be  sworn  at 
something  between  fifty  and  sixty  thousand," 

When  Paul  went  home  and  told  Nea  of  this  sudden 
freak  of  fortune  she  answered  quietly,  "  I  more  than  half 
suspected  it.  You  know,  dear  Paul,  he  wrote  to  papa 
while  I  was  stopping  at  Sheffield,  and  urged  me  most 
strongly  to  marry  you,  saying  our  future  was  fully  assured  ; 
and  so  he  did,  too,  to  Faith  and  Charlie,  But  he  particu- 
larly begged  us  to  say  nothing  to  you  about  the  matter. 
He  thought  it  would  only  prevent  your  marrying."  Then 
she  flung  her  arms  passionately  aiound  her  husband's  neck. 
*'  And  now,  darling,"  she  cried,  bursting  into  glad  tears, 
"now  that  those  dreadful  claims  are  settled  for  ever,  and 
you're  free  to  do  exactly  as  you  like,  you  can  give  up  that 
horrid  journalism  altogeth;ir,  and  devote  yourself  to  the 
work  you'd  really  like  to  do — to  something  worthy  of  you 
— to  something  truly  great  and  noble  for  humanity  !  " 


!  said 


THE   END. 


